What bugs you most?
by dmf1984
Summary: Jim Brass' niece visits from Florida and the CSI team finds themselves investigating suspected biological weapons testing near Las Vegas.
1. Chapter 1

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP, but I was bitten in a recent plot bunny attack (October 2007) and decided to dust this one off and see where it goes. It is a much longer companion piece to the "Better Brass biography" posted over at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group.

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

Thank you to the very kind folks at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group and at Meg's Brass Fan site. The "Internet Movie Database" is another good source of research information.

Author's notes: Although I've tried to minimize occurrences of "Captain Exposition", it does work sometimes, you know? I didn't really like the "official" CBS biography for Jim Brass (January 3rd Capricorn? Puh-lease.), so I changed some of it to suit my purposes; it's in the "Better Brass biography". No, "Dr. Mickey Kaye" is not really me, but I bet I could play her on television. I confess to being a Brass/Willows shipper from the beginning of Season 1, although CaptainBrass/CaptainAnnie is cool too.

Chapter 01/??

"Flights of fancy"

(a Sunday night in mid-May)

It was a perfect dark night: new Moon meant no Moon. Kevin O'Grady checked and re-checked the aircraft and its cargo. He didn't want anything to go wrong, and had gone over the procedure dozens of times with his aircrew.

"How does the bird look, Michols?" he asked his pilot.

"A-okay, Major. We should be in the air in twenty," was the reply.

O'Grady grunted acknowledgement and rubbed his hand through newly cropped hair. A lifetime in the military had come easily to him: his father and grandfather had served with distinction in the U.S. Army, and had not protested over-much his decision to join the Air Force. His original goal of the NASA Space Program had been a no-go, but the Sciences Division had far made up for that disappointment. He taught from time to time at the USAF Academy in Colorado Springs, which gave him time to pursue other interests: skiing and "home-grown" microbiology. He could teach introductory biology courses in his sleep.

O'Grady was glad that training missions were scheduled out of Nellis AFB during all hours, and that a buddy from boot camp was in charge of the calendar. It gave him plenty of chances to join the pilots in the course of his experiments: delivery systems for biological specimens. He didn't bring himself to call them "weapons" exactly; more importantly, his superiors had taken an interest in his agricultural biotechnology. It made a good cover story anyway.

As the aircraft took off into the dark night, he allowed himself a grim smile. Tonight was the first actual release of lyophilized cultures, for the most part harmless of course, but useful in pinpointing the best conditions for release. He absently answered the pilot's questions as he warmed up the system in the cargo bay, and checked his notes. It was going to be a good flight.

He must have spoken out loud because "Roger that, Major, roger that," came back over his headset. O'Grady forced himself to chuckle, mainly to keep the aircrew from becoming suspicious.

"And viva Las Vegas," said the co-pilot in a passable "Elvis" voice as they climbed from the runway. "Hot damn is that pretty." The bright lights of the oasis in the desert shined brightly below them.

-/-/-/-/-/-

It was just after midnight and Homicide Detective Captain Jim Brass sat in his Las Vegas Metro PD office with Gil Grissom, drinking coffee and going over the first reports of the night. Grissom was the night shift CSI supervisor, Jim's previous position with the department, and crime-wise, it was a quiet night in "Second Chance City". Rare, but both men had been in Vegas long enough to believe that it was really a calm before the storm kind of thing.

"So, what do you think?" Brass asked his colleague. "O'Riley can get over to the parents in the morning."

He idly stirred at his coffee with the plastic swizzle stick, and then sucked on it speculatively. He chewed on it too, realizing that it had been a long time since he'd wanted a smoke. Jim made a mental note to pick up some more nicotine gum when he had the chance, every few months he went through the same thing with the cigarettes. Maybe he'd get some cigars instead.

"Good. We should have the tox-screen back shortly. Doc Robbins is leaning toward accidental death based on his preliminary findings, and not homicide or suicide at this point," Gil said, sadly shaking his head. "Kids."

Brass heaved a sigh and nodded his agreement, thinking with pain in his heart about his poor relationship with his own daughter, Ellie.

"Too rich, too bored, and too stupid to lay off the huff. Whatever happened to hobbies like baseball, basketball and Scouts? Hell, I played hockey for years growing up back east. During the season, I was too busy skating and practicing slap shots to get into…much trouble."

Even now, more than forty years later, he could hear his mother calling from the kitchen window for the boys to come in for dinner.

Grissom smirked. "And I played baseball and football, I know, Jim. To use the language of my neighbor's children: 'it's just not cool anymore'. Still…" He made some notes in one of the folders.

They were interrupted by a quiet knock on the doorjamb. A young woman's head popped in around the slightly opened door, her longish brown hair and glasses immediately familiar to the veteran detective.

"Oh, excuse me," she said when she saw Grissom. "I'm looking for Detective Captain Brass' office and the front desk person directed me here. Uncle Jimmy?"

In all the time he'd known him, well over ten years, Gil Grissom had never, ever seen Brass' face brighten so quickly and completely as it did just then; usually he kept his expression carefully neutral, or he looked like someone (often Grissom or one of the other CSI's in the course of an investigation) had just poured water over him, figuratively speaking, of course. A real, honest-to-goodness smile dropped ages from his worn features. They both stood, Gil tucking the stack of manila folders under one arm.

"Mouse! Unbelievable, get over here girl," Brass said, positively beaming as he came around the desk to hug her. The woman was actually his niece, and he was as proud of her accomplishments as if she was his own child. "When did you get into town, you turkey? Dammit, you look terrific."

The young woman he'd called "Mouse" kissed him on the cheek, then pulled back halfway from his embrace. She quirked an eyebrow, hoping he'd let her answer some of the questions before he continued in his rapid-fire pace.

"About an hour ago. I took a cab in from the airport, uh McCarran, I guess it's called." She was smiling too, and Grissom noticed then the very strong family resemblance between them: same height-about 5'9, same dark brown hair, and same profile. Almost. She had a much better tan.

Brass returned the kiss on the cheek, and then held up her left hand to check the ring finger. He raised his eyebrows significantly; a silent question.

To Gil's surprise, she shook her head at the detective with what seemed to be exasperated affection.

"That topic is a _nunya_, Uncle Jimmy," she admonished. "As in, 'nunya damn business'."

Grissom couldn't place the accent as she spoke to Brass directly, and he wondered about it, somewhere in New England maybe. He noticed too a small gold ring on her right ring finger: a traditional Irish claddagh with the heart, hands and crown design. Other than that, there was no jewelry on her hands. Even her watch was simple and functional: black plastic, digital and waterproof like his own.

Jim Brass smiled more gently, giving her arm a fond squeeze, and then he shrugged. "I know it is, kiddo. You probably get enough of that discussion from my sister, if I know our Margaret."

His expression was sympathetic. Margaret Brass Kaye often shared her opinions on how her "baby brother" James should live his life, an annoying habit leftover from their childhood in Massachusetts. Hell, he was almost fifty and she still did it.

The young woman's answer was merely a long-suffering, dramatic sigh, but her smile was genuine. Holding her left hand in both of his, Brass turned to Grissom.

"Gil, this is my niece, Dr. Michelle Kaye. She's visiting from Florida for some conference out here this week, and forgot to phone her uncle to pick her up at the airport when she got in. Mouse, meet Gil Grissom, CSI graveyard shift supervisor." Brass raised his eyebrows at her again, smirking to add to his verbal emphasis.

Michelle shook hands with Grissom with her free right hand. "Dr. Grissom, pleasure to meet you. Please, call me Mickey. _Michelle_ is for folks who don't know me or are about to give me a lecture on why I am not married at 34, or some dumb crap like that."

Grissom frowned momentarily at her frankness and at the seemingly inappropriate nickname, thinking that she sure wasn't "mousy-looking" by any stretch of the imagination, and then smiled in understanding.

"And you. Call me Gil. A Walt Disney fan perhaps?" He realized at that moment that she was probably a lot like Captain Brass: very intelligent, a little bit cynical, and more than a tad sarcastic.

Brass and his niece both laughed at this. "The Big Mouse is king where I live," she said, winking at Grissom with an impish look he knew so well in the detective captain when the mood struck him. "Actually, Uncle Jim has a hopelessly bad habit of giving nicknames in the family, and everybody gets one whether they want it or not. Some are more obscure than others, I swear, but you got it in one. Most folks don't even get the joke."

Gil noticed that her accent had changed again, very slightly and to a different region of the U.S., and he wondered how she did it. He chalked it up to his unresolved hearing issues these days.

Grissom immediately liked her quirky sense of humor, and was very pleased to learn about this new side of his friend and colleague. Even after working together for more than a decade, he knew very little about Brass' private life (though many in the Forensics/I.D. unit would say the same thing about him): he grew up playing lots of hockey in Massachusetts, right around Boston and some of the surrounding towns; he'd worked in Newark, New Jersey as a cop for many years before landing in Las Vegas; he was divorced; he had a twenty-something year old daughter; and, he had a thirty-something year old niece; that was about it.

"How did you know I'm a doctor? It's not a common assumption," he said.

The three of them sat comfortably around the Captain's desk, Mickey placing her glasses up on the corner of it. She undid her hair from the clip that held it in a neat ponytail and massaged her temples with a tired sigh.

"You've got the _look_ Gil, of graduate school survivor I mean. What was your dissertation area?" She gingerly rubbed the bridge of her nose and then replaced the eyeglasses on her face.

"Ph.D. in forensic entomology mainly, plus a few other things. Yours?" An ironic smile tweaked at the corners of his mouth.

Mickey grinned, genuinely tickled at the fact that he knew she wasn't an M.D. either. "Ph.D. in soil microbiology mainly, plus a few other things. I'm teaching now, part-time since '97, and a consulting partner with an environmental firm in Tallahassee; 'bugs are us', if you will."

"Interesting combination, " Grissom commented.

She nodded her thanks to Brass, who had just handed her a small bottled water from the fridge at the back wall behind his desk. He guessed correctly that she probably wanted to lay off the caffeine for the night. East Coast-time, it was after two in the morning.

"Yeah, it worked out that way, strangely enough. My undergraduate program of study was biology and chemistry, and I played golf for the university; straight out, gung-ho pre-med for the first two and a half years. One creosote bioremediation project came through while I was a student lab assistant though, and surprise I was hooked on dirt and soil bacteria for life."

"See? Isn't that lovely? You're both _bug_ doctors, " said the detective with an elfin grin.

Grissom and Mickey both turned sharply to him and started to protest in one voice, unconsciously saying the same words: "It's not the same th…"

Brass laughed, wickedly amused at their knee-jerk defensive reactions. He knew how to push his friend's buttons really well, and apparently his niece's too. The puckish devil on his shoulder was busy again tonight, as always.

Mickey realized before Grissom that her favorite uncle was teasing them, and she flipped the plastic cap from the water bottle across the desk, aiming for his forehead. "Thanks a bunch, pally. Taking advantage of the jet-lagged. Shame on you, Uncle Jimmy."

"Oh, you poor defensive thing," he fussed, dodging the little white cap, but his look was not the least contrite. "Come on Miss Crankypants, I'll give you a lift to your hotel before you get really mean, and start throwing big stuff at me."

He saw her eyeing a softball trophy with its team-signed ball on his bookcase, and he recognized the speculative shadow of a smile; Jim knew she had been a decent center-fielder in middle school, with a right arm like a cannon. Mickey grinned when she noticed that he had followed her train of thought. It was an old joke in the family, and thank goodness, no one had ever actually followed through with it.

Grissom's pager beeped for attention before he could make any kind of appropriate retort to the mild jabs: it read 'Robbins'. "That'll be the tox-screen, _Jimmy_. It was nice to meet you, Dr. Mickey. Maybe Brass will let you come back for a longer visit while you're in town."

"I'd like that, thank you. He's already told me about some of the really cool lab equipment you guys have in here. I need to check it out for my lab back home in Tallahassee."

Gil smiled at the captain who was trying to look innocent; Brass was a self-professed technophobe from way back.

"Really? Then I'm sure it can be arranged." He tapped the door with the stack of folders. "I'll let you know about the screen results as soon as possible, Jim. Good night, Mickey."

Brass reached into the top drawer of his desk to retrieve his car keys. "So, where you staying kiddo?"

Mickey finished the bottled water, then looked around for his trashcan and tossed it in, underhand. "Um, Hilton, yeah. Convention center, somewhere downtown I guess."

She smiled tiredly and slung a travel bag over one shoulder. A yawn escaped her as he bent to pick up a brown leather briefcase that looked much heavier. It was: laptop computer and God-knows what else. Jim gave a mock groan of effort when he straightened up again.

Brass grabbed his coffee for one last sip on the way out. He chuckled. "Poor little Mouse. You do look worn out. At least you travel light, " he said, nodding toward her shoulder bag.

She leaned over and poked him on the arm, then preceded him out the door. "Thanks. I have _enough_ baggage to cart around as it is," she said cryptically. "You have no idea." The detective frowned and then filed the thought away on the short drive to the Las Vegas Hilton. He'd have to ask about that statement later.

-/-/-/-/-/-

Comments and questions cheerfully accepted.

TBC?


	2. Jet lag

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP, but I was bitten in a recent plot bunny attack (October 2007) and decided to dust this one off and see where it goes. It is a much longer companion piece to the "Better Brass biography" posted over at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group.

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

Thank you to the very kind folks at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group and at Meg's Brass Fan site. The "Internet Movie Database" is another good source of research information.

Author's notes: thanks to all of those who read and reviewed; I appreciate it (and so does the Muse). More to come as RL permits.

Chapter 02/??

"Jet-lag"

(Monday night in mid-May)

Fairly early the next nightshift, Jim Brass clicked off the tape recorder and was finishing up in Interrogation room 3.

"Mr. Stanton, we're gonna hold you awhile in a nice comfy cell until the lab has finished. I think you know the rest of the song from here, right?" The detective smiled sarcastically at Stanton's sour reaction. The evidence against him was solidly damaging and his county-appointed attorney had advised him strongly to shut the hell up. "Go ahead, Joe. I'll be on the paper trail in my office," he said to the uniformed deputy leading a handcuffed Bill Stanton out.

"You got it, Captain," the sergeant assured him.

Brass checked his watch: 9:45 p.m. On the way to his office, he passed Sara Sidle and Nick Stokes in the hallway, deeply involved in an animated conversation about a readout sheet.

"Sara, Nick. Nice work you two," he told them sincerely. He was referring to the Stanton case they'd nearly completed. "The D.A. is going to go for LWOP." Life without parole.

Both of the CSIs looked surprised at his unusually pleasant mood, and attributed it to the slam-dunk collar and arrest of William T. Stanton.

"Brass. Uh, thanks man," replied Nick.

The handsome and cocky former Texas A&M Aggie fraternity brother/baseball player flashed a million-dollar smile. Sara folded the paper and returned it to the evidence jacket.

"Hey Jim, Claudia said your niece is in town for a conference." _The rumor mill is running behind tonight_, he thought. That news was twenty-four hours old, but they had gotten busy with cases, after all. New conventions in Las Vegas brought out the predators, of all types, hungry for fresh and unwary prey-the visitors. "Call her in. We'll do a group breakfast or something," Sara offered.

Nick barked a short laugh and grinned mischievously. "Seriously? Cool. Yeah, we'll get some of your secrets out now, Pardner," he teased in his usual Texas drawl.

Of all the criminalists and detectives who worked so closely together on the graveyard shift, it was Captain Jim Brass they had the fewest personal details about. Sara smacked him on the shoulder, but she was smiling too.

"Shut _up_, Nicky," she told him. "We promised not to play 'twenty questions' anymore. It scares people away, remember?"

Brass shrugged noncommittally and raised an eyebrow at them. "I already warned her all about you, Stokes," he said over one shoulder, grinning to himself as he continued down the hallway.

Nick frowned suddenly, wondering what he meant by that as Sara chuckled and pushed him ahead of her. _About_ _what?_ he mouthed silently, a look of concern creeping into his eyes.

Dialing the hotel and room number Mickey had given to him, Brass checked his watch again, hoping it wasn't too late in the evening. He sometimes forgot about being on the 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift and making non-emergency telephone calls. He had the same problem phoning back East, to Florida or Massachusetts, on the occasions he spoke to his older siblings.

"Hello?" he heard her say, sounding disoriented, sleepy and fumbling with the telephone on its cradle.

"Oh, damn. Mouse, I'm sorry. I thought I could catch you before you went to bed." He grimaced slightly at himself and sat back in the thick leather chair at his desk. He tapped a pencil eraser sharply on his own forehead. _Way to go, Jimbo_.

"Hi, Uncle Jim. I'm glad you called." Over the line, he heard a click as she hit the light switch, probably sitting up as she did so. Her voice was soft and gravelly from sleep.

"Are you doing okay, kiddo?"

"Yeah, my travel day just caught up with me, big time, especially with the longer than expected lay-over in Dallas; there's a concourse waiting area chair in DFW with my ass print on it. I'll be good to go tomorrow, I hope. What time is it anyway?"

Brass chuckled softly. "In Vegas or Tallahassee? Just after ten."

She laughed too. "Ugh, I'm all messed up. It was presentations all day then I worked on my Power point slides for tomorrow's session. A swim and dinner, and I am toast."

"Whoa, sounds like too much _bug_ _stuff_ to me," he joked. She had told him about some of her most recent work the night before on the drive over to her hotel. He understood about ten percent of it, maybe less. Brass had majored in history, so there was exactly one biology course and one chemistry course on his B.A. transcript from Seton Hall; both sciences had been for non-majors.

"That's it."

He heard her trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn and could almost sense her fatigue and jet-lag through the line.

"Listen, I'll let you get back to sleep. Why don't you give me a call tomorrow or the next day and we'll go do something not too touristy, maybe a baseball game. You have my number?"

Now it was her turn to chuckle. "Yes-siree, all five of them, Captain. What's up with that? You got too many girlfriends calling you at all hours?"

"Price of fame, in this town anyway. Break a leg tomorrow," he told her, grinning and shaking his head at her smart-ass comments…he was usually the one doing that job so it was humorous to be on the receiving end.

"Thanks, Uncle Jimmy. I'll call," she promised.

"OK. G'night, Mouse; I love you, kid."

"I love you too. G'night." He heard her yawning again as he clicked the phone off.

Brass reached for his CD-player remote and switched it on. Sinatra's golden voice quietly came from the speakers, and Jim sighed as he started on the lengthy investigation report. Paperwork was not his favorite thing, legwork was not much better. Catching bad guys, now that was good stuff. _Yeah_.

"Speak to me, Frank. This shit is for the birds."


	3. Very Zen

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP, but I was bitten in a recent plot bunny attack (October 2007) and decided to dust this one off and see where it goes. It is a much longer companion piece to the "Better Brass biography" posted over at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group.

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

Chapter 03/??

"Very Zen"

(A Tuesday night in mid-May)

Jim Brass sat in his office with his jacket off, necktie loosened and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. He stared at the computer screen, flipping pages with a click of the mouse button. Something was missing from the database reports and he racked his brain trying to dredge it up: aliases, credit card fraud, ATM receipts, vehicle records, something…anything to track down this guy and make progress on the case.

_We'll get you eventually, moron_, he whispered to himself, fending off frustration with an effort of will. _You moes always screw something up_.

He was about to head down the hall to give himself a break and a change of scenery to clear the cobwebs when the phone on his desk rang. He instinctively turned away from the monitor to give the caller his full attention, and readied a pen over his ever-present notepad.

"Brass, homicide."

It was Claudia, the night shift front desk coordinator. He heard the amusement in her voice as she spoke. "Howdy, Captain. Your niece is on line two."

Brass raised his eyebrows, wondering what the staff had going tonight. Nothing inappropriate, but he knew they were understandably curious about his family relationships; they had to be better than what he had with his estranged daughter. But, Brass and Ellie were trying to get back in touch, if uncomfortably. Slow progress, but progress nonetheless; at least she didn't hate him anymore, and that was saying something. Jim's ex-wife, Nancy, had really done a smear campaign on him while Ellie was growing up. Some of it was deserved, but damn, not all of it.

"Thank you, Claudia," he said and pressed the button for the correct line. "Yo, Mickey Brown Eyes!" said Brass, sitting back and putting a lot of the old Newark, New Jersey precinct in his deep voice. "Long time no see."

"Yo, Jimmy the Knucks!" he heard her laugh as she replied with the same deliberately thick accent. "How the fu…heck are ya?"

Mickey caught herself in time; serious swearing in front of her uncle, or her parents for that matter, wasn't something she thought would go over very well, no matter how old she was. Not unless she really, really needed to, and was really, really angry or really, really drunk.

"Not bad. How'd your bug-talk go this morning? Is there a new textbook thing in it, or what?" Detective "Jimmy the Knucks" Brass grinned and shook his head as he spoke, realizing that she was probably blushing a little on her end of the line. He used to do the same thing when talking to his mother from college, and had to remember to censor himself a bit; another Brass family tradition carrying on into the next generation.

"I think pretty well, but I'm not ready for the book deals. That's a _lot_ of work, and most of it is unappreciated and unpaid. There might be some really good consulting contacts come out of this one though," she said. "We'll see. Folks are always so all-fired enthusiastic about trading phone numbers and email addresses at meetings, you know, business and school contacts. Then most of the cards get stuck in the bottom of a suitcase for the laundry gnomes to find. Go figure that one out."

Brass grinned into the phone again as he heard her drop the Jersey and head back to the heat and humidity of the Southeastern U.S. with her voice. Though she and her older brothers and sister had all been born in Massachusetts, they grew up in South Carolina and Florida as U.S. Navy kids, and he was still amused sometimes by the way they sounded (and they him; the teasing was a two-way street, ya'll). His sister, Margaret had certainly not lost her Boston-area intonations when she moved, and it got stronger whenever they spoke on the telephone.

So did his, for that matter. He couldn't help it. Somebody could simply mention Faneuil Hall, Fenway Park or the old Boston Garden, and he was back there, heart and soul. Jim and Mags' older brothers Pete (with the Boston Fire Department) and Johnny (an economics professor at BC) still lived in New England. The brothers often teased Jimmy that he'd attended some Hollywood school to tone his accent down a bit. Of course, he hadn't.

"Just don't take any bugs back home," he joked. "You sound chipper, like you're finally on Vegas time."

"Oh, yeah. Finally is right. I hit the tradeshow tables today after lunch for all the free coffee cups and penlights I could carry for my lab guys back home. And _then_ I found the Starbuck's cart. Mm-m-m. Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow after work?" she asked.

Brass laughed and sipped at his own coffee, high-test, fully "leaded". "You're the guest out here, Bozo, remember? Sure. I get done about seven, unless the bad guys run late."

"Cool beans. I'll swim laps at five and head over after," she told him.

"Ugh, _gross_. Swimming at five in the morning, on purpose? That is _sick_, Mouse. Sick, sick, sick." He made a face and she could almost hear it.

Mickey had to giggle, in part because he was teasing her with her own vocabulary. "Old habit, Uncle Jimmy. Really old."

Brass had a memory of some snapshots his sister had sent to him years ago; he'd have to try to find them again. All four of the Kaye nieces and nephews had been age-group swimmers, and he remembered that they'd done really well at it. One of his nephews, Michelle's oldest brother Jack Jr., had swum through college but dropped it for medical school. He was a pediatrician now, somewhere in Florida. Tampa, that was it.

"Hey, you still compete?"

"Nah, not since high school. I just do it for the exercise and tan lines. I wrote most of my doctoral dissertation in the pool, in fact. Swimming's good therapy for writer's block, very Zen."

"No _wonder_ the pages got all wet," he said with a quiet snort. "And that's what took you so long in grad school, right? Sheesh, after what your mother told me, I thought you were smart. I dunno...FSU, number one party school in America, twice in the 90's..." Brass clucked his tongue in admonishment.

"Whatever," said Mickey, laughing at his bad joke. "No donuts for you, Mr. Policeman."

"That's Mr. Police _Detective_, kid; get it right. You make me sound like I'm still a rookie cop on foot patrol," he corrected with good humor. "Alright, be good, Sweetie. See you between six and seven in the a.m.?"

"Aye aye, Captain. Night, Uncle Jimmy."

"Good night, Mouse," he told her, chuckling as he hung up the phone. _Oh, that girl's crazy, God love her_. Brass made a quick note to himself in his pocket calendar (another old habit, really old) and headed toward the lab area to look for Grissom or Catherine Willows, the two senior-most CSI's who were working with him on the Matthews case. Maybe they had something.

TBC


	4. Oh Captain, my Captain

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP, but I was bitten in a recent plot bunny attack (October 2007) and decided to dust this one off and see where it goes. It is a much longer companion piece to the "Better Brass biography" posted over at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group.

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

Chapter 04/??

"Oh Captain, my Captain"

(A Wednesday morning in mid-May)

Brass barely glanced up at the knock on his door, not really bothering to look out of the waist-high glass windows.

"Yeah, it's open," he called out. Then he checked his watch and guessed that it would probably be Mickey. He had left word with Claudia at the front desk, letting her know to expect his special guest and to have a visitor's tag ready.

She poked her head in, beaming from ear to ear about something.

"Oh Captain, my Captain. Hey, I got you a present yesterday at the conference."

Brass couldn't help but to grin back, not surprised at all that she'd come in a little early. He knew he'd created a monster when he told her about the lab's state-of-the-art DNA sequencer and other equipment. Well, he'd told her the names of the machines as best as he could remember them. Heaven knows what most of the stuff was actually for, in his opinion; a lot of high-tech voodoo to him. Jim understood wearing out shoe leather with good, old-fashioned detective work.

He pinched her cheek gently when she came over to his side of the desk, holding out a bright green object and giving it to him with a two-handed flourish.

"Well, good morning, Mouse-who-is-way-too-freakin'-cheerful-at-this-time-of-the-morning. Um, thanks. What is it?" He tilted it left and right and only saw it as bright green goop in a tube, with a pen cap on one end. It wasn't like any pen he'd ever seen before.

"Synthetically-fluorescent pseudomonad pus highlighter! It's from a hospital infection control company based in North Carolina. Isn't it great?!"

Her dark eyes were twinkling like some daft and drunken leprechaun's. Jim wondered for a brief second where she had gotten that facial expression; no, he knew exactly where it had come from. It was entirely genetic: his father used to look like that sometimes, especially if the Red Sox were leading the AL East after the Fourth of July, or more importantly, after Labor Day.

He wasn't sure what to say, and he frowned suspiciously at the neon green stuff. Brass wasn't too sure if she was serious either, then she snickered at the look on his face and relented.

"You're such a big sissy, Uncle Jim. It's just a broad-line highlighter. I thought the green was neat, but there really is a live pseudomonad bacterium about that color." Mickey rubbed her hands together in mock greed, eyes still twinkling. "And I got six for myself."

"Eeeuw. And, uh, what's a _pseudomonad_ when it's not talking to a scientist? A bug or something?" She nodded, _of course_. The detective Captain wrinkled his nose before gingerly placing it on his desk, treating it as if it really were toxic waste. "You ain't right, Mick. You just ain't right. Come on, let's go meet some people."

Mickey followed him out of his office, adjusting the tag on her jacket and making sure it was in the same position as his LVMPD shield on his coat left breast pocket. She stopped sheepishly when she realized he was watching her with an amused look on his face. Raising her eyebrows in an expression that her uncle used so often, she said:

"_What_?! I gotta have a badge to be in here, Uncle Jim. Right?"

He pulled her into a brief one-armed hug and squeeze about the shoulders as they made their way down the corridor to the break room. "I think you watch far too much television, young lady. You know they always get the cop shows wrong."

"I do not," she protested, smiling. "I don't even have cable at home, which really sucks big time during Red Sox season."

Brass shook his head and had to smile as he recited the next part: "And Patriots season, and Celtics season…"

"And Bruins season," she finished the litany for him.

They both knew it so very well: Brass' father, and Mickey's grandfather, Peter, had been a huge sports fan and kept track of the years with his personal version of the four seasons back in Canton, Massachusetts. That, and the Winter Olympics for international ice hockey every four years, and he was set. He enjoyed ESPN, immensely, right up until his death in 1992. Brass' mother, Kathleen, had been a huge tennis (especially Wimbledon) and figure skating fan. It seemed that sports programs were always on in the house.

In the CSI break room, Nick Stokes, Warrick Brown, Sara Sidle and Catherine Willows were chatting around the table, ready for the end of their shift. Catherine relaxed and lingered over a hot mug of herbal tea, while Nick and Sara companionably shared a store-bought bowl of fresh fruit chunks. Sara had a thick journal article open in front of her. Warrick was half-heartedly working a crossword puzzle from the newspaper, in red ink.

"I tell you what, the pros are out workin' it. _Third_ trick roll in two days, man," complained Nick in his east-Texas drawl, emphasizing his point with a piece of melon speared on his plastic fork. He was from Fort Worth, Texas (and not the 'Big D', Dallas, like Sheriff Brian Mobley was). "All these microbiology geeks coming into town, hoping to get laid, Vegas-style. You think they'd read the dang information packets…" He shook his head, laughing in disbelief, referring to "client robberies" by prostitutes, a well-known occurrence in "Sin City".

From the doorway, Captain Brass cleared his throat to get Stokes' attention before he said anything else. Catherine Willows had already seen the two of them standing there, and came nearer, extending her hand to Mickey. She smiled warmly in welcome, ignoring that they'd heard Nick's comment.

"Never mind him. Hi, I'm Catherine Willows. You must be the mysterious Brass niece he's _not_ been hinting about for two days now. We weren't too sure if you really existed or not, so it's great to finally meet you in the flesh."

Brass rolled his eyes at her. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Michelle Kaye, or Mickey rather, meet Cath Willows, Sara Sidle, Warrick Brown, and the ever-PC, Mr. Nicholas Stokes," he said, indicating each person. Mickey came to the table to shake hands with the other three CSI's.

"Please, don't let me interrupt your breakfast," she told them as she and Jim leaned against the counter. "You're probably ready to get off for the night, er, day. I don't think I could handle your night-owl schedule at all."

Nick, embarrassed that they'd most likely overheard him, tried to make pleasant conversation. "So, um, Mickey. What are you doing in our little corner of the desert?"

She shrugged and decided to flirt a little. "Oh, same old, same old: microbiology geek, in town, hoping to get laid." Stokes reddened and tried to stammer an apology as the others in the break room burst out with unconcealed bouts of laughter. Jim Brass spluttered and nearly had a coughing fit, moving to the water cooler ungracefully.

"Dammit to hell, Mouse," he commented under his breath as he slipped by her. He was laughing too, and had to dab tears from the corner of one eye with the back of his hand.

Reddening a bit herself, Mickey leaned over and placed a warm hand on Nick's arm.

"I'm sorry. I see an open door; I walk in. It's probably inherited and _very_ hard to control," she told him, with a significant nod of her head towards the Captain. Sara and Catherine shared a wordless, knowing look at what seemed to be going on already between Stokes and the newcomer.

Just then, Gil Grissom came in carrying a clipboard, oblivious to the on-going conversation. "Nick, Greg's ready for us. Oh, good morning, Dr. Mickey. Nice to see you again."

She waved and smiled. "Good morning, Dr. Gil."

Warrick gave a low whistle. "_Doctor Mickey_? You go girl. Alright, I'm out people," he said, tossing the folded crossword on the table and grabbing his jacket. "Later." The tall, good-looking black man gently punched Nick on the shoulder as he went by, teasing. "You're so smoooooooth, man. My hero."

Grissom, Stokes and Brown all exited the break room. Nick blushed again as he passed Mickey. He was uncharacteristically tongue-tied, opening his mouth once but nothing came out.

"That's awesome. What's your doctorate in, Mickey?" Sara wanted to know, looking up from her article. She had done some graduate work after finishing her bachelor's degree at Harvard. The move to San Francisco, and then on to Vegas had temporarily interrupted her goal of an advanced degree or two.

"Micro, mainly soils and environmental stuff. The ASM meeting just happened to be in Las Vegas this year since it needs a really big, giant convention place," she replied modestly.

Brass had noticed that she rarely mentioned her own college degrees (at least three, maybe four; he lost count); someone else always did. He admired that about her. Being the youngest child among his family too, Jim knew that it could be tough to be the baby of the bunch; always being compared to a brother or sister who was taller, neater, quieter, smarter, whatever. He'd worked hard to find a niche, and apparently, so had she. He reminded himself to ask her about the other three Kayes at breakfast.

Catherine was at the sink, rinsing her mug and leaving it on the dish drainer.

"Time for a quick tour? We don't have to do the El Grande if you need to get back to the Convention center," she asked, including Mickey and Brass as she looked over her shoulder.

"I dunno. My seminars today start at 9:00. Uncle Jim?"

Brass checked his watch and shrugged. "Yeah, why not? Plenty of time." Mickey gave him a grateful, enthused smile, as Willows gathered them in her wake.

"Bonus. It was nice to meet you Sara," she said as she was ushered out of the break room, leaving Sidle to her journal. Sara smiled back and saluted with her coffee cup, getting back to reading.

It wasn't a very long tour of the labs, but Mickey was clearly enjoying herself. Catherine Willows was a great guide (Gil Grissom always referred to her as the "people person" of the lab crew); a kind and imminently qualified senior CSI, and who also seemed to be enjoying the light-hearted interaction she saw between the veteran detective and his niece. She had known him for several years, and remembered how discouraged and hurt he'd been when his daughter had had some trouble in Vegas a couple of years back. Not that he'd come right out and said so, but she could tell. It made her appreciate more and more what she and her beautiful eight-year old daughter Lindsey had going for them.

The three of them turned onto another corridor after passing by some of the more high-tech areas like video, audio and ballistics; not actually going in, but Catherine described a lot of what went on. Brass didn't say much as they walked, content to observe Willows and Mickey, becoming more and more impressed by her questions. He naturally slipped into observation mode and was comfortable with it.

Willows looked down another hallway and stopped when she saw Brass' face suddenly go blank: he preferred to stay out of the autopsy rooms unless he absolutely had to go in as part of the job. Otherwise, he often said: "I'd rather deal with live bodies than dead ones, but thanks anyway."

Mickey read the signs to the right, "Pathology" among them, and was going to ask Catherine about it. Catherine was faster on the draw. "You don't want to ruin your breakfast, or Jim's for that matter," she suggested.

The young woman shrugged easily, nonplussed, and evidently had not noticed that her uncle had become a bit squeamish just by being on that particular corridor. "No, you're probably right. Maybe later I could schedule a post-observation with the M.E.?"

Catherine was surprised; even her use of the terminology was correct. "You'd want to?"

"Sure, absolutely. I took two semesters of Gross Human Anatomy, which it was, especially toward the end of spring term." She laughed quietly at a memory that came to her. "God help the summer term students with the A/C going out all the time. Very stinky job."

"No shit, Mouse? Where was this?" Even Brass seemed a little surprised. Willows chuckled inwardly at the familial nickname. She liked it. She also thought that his New England accent was slipping out more often these days, which was interesting.

"FSU undergrad. It was a great course, tough as all get-out, and I had to take it. I'm pre-med at the time; the head honcho advisor taught it; you know how it goes. Captive audience kind of deal."

"Then we'll definitely have to see about a post for you later. Doc Robbins would probably love a visitor since he gets so few down here. How about the DNA lab for now?" Catherine put in.

Mickey gave her a really big smile then. "Oh, yes please. That's my main gig back home." Willows had to grin at her transparent and guileless enthusiasm, and she patted both the visitor and her uncle on the shoulders as she stepped between them.

"DNA it is," she said, leading the way.

Greg Sanders was still on duty, and was listening to something—loudly, on the stereo while he worked. He was unaware he had visitors, but Mickey thought she recognized "A Flock of Seagulls".

"Greg!" Cath shouted, clicking the CD player off and startling him. "Greg," she said again, her tone more normal.

"Whoa, Ms. Willows," he caught his chest in a dramatic gesture. "What can I do for you?"

"How about a tour? Meet Captain Brass' niece, Michelle, from Florida," she told him by way of introduction.

Greg was, as usual, a spectacular mass of colors in his clothes and disarranged hair, but he was also suave, in his own unique sense of the word. He shook her hand gravely, giving a little bow.

"Hi, Michelle. Good morning, Captain." She made him think of a Beatles song and a quiet Sir Paul McCartney voice started singing the lyrics in his head: _these are words that go together well, my Michelle_…

Mickey grinned and blushed a little at his courtly greeting. "Hi, Greg. Please, call me Mickey."

"OK, Mickey, welcome to my DNA world, although we do other analysis in here too, such as…" and with that, he launched into a dog and pony show for her. Brass and Willows moved off to one side, to lean against a workbench and watch from the sidelines for a while.

Sanders was soon cheerfully involved with Mickey's questions and comments, realizing that she wasn't just what she appeared to be: Brass' gorgeous niece from out of town. If he didn't already have a girlfriend, Greg seriously considered asking her out then and there, right in front of her uncle and the CSI he'd always had a crush on. For their parts, Willows and Brass heard the words "primers" and "DNA strands" with minimal comprehension, but the rest of the technical jargon soon passed them both on by. Jim Brass thought he heard Mickey speaking English, although he didn't understand most of it the way Sanders, the lab technician, obviously did. They may as well have been speaking Swahili.

Catherine nudged him playfully with her elbow, out of sight of the two young people. "Jim, she's the smartest one in your family, isn't she?" Willows said it in a soft whisper, looking up at him with a wink. "And cute as a button."

Brass gave a silent chuckle, and mouthed back: "Yeah." He checked his watch then, and made a noise to get her attention. "We'd better hit it, Mickey, if you're going to make your nine o'clock. I promise you can come back later if you're nice."

Mickey checked her watch too. "Sorry, Greg. I'm at the conference center all day today, and I did tell Uncle Jim I'd take him to breakfast." She looked over at the DNA sequencer station with regret.

"Excellent. Come back any time," he told her truthfully, following her gaze to the sequencer and then patting a large piece of equipment on the bench beside him. "We didn't get to the _really_ good stuff yet."

Dr. Mickey laughed and reached to shake his hand, and Willows'. "Thank you, I will. Catherine, thanks. I hope I wasn't too annoying already."

Catherine returned the handshake warmly. "My pleasure, honey. You'd better go and feed Jim before he withers away," she joked. Brass made a face at her.

"Thanks a lot," he said as they left.

Greg leaned to look out the lab window, making sure that the sharp-eared, sharp-eyed Captain was away. "Are they _really_ related? I mean, she's a total fox, and Brass is…" Catherine had to giggle at the expression of disbelief on his youthful face.

"Not your type," she finished for him, subtly defending the detective Captain. "She must take after her mother, Greggo." Willows poked him gently in the ribs, "Gotta get Linds to school. Have a good one."

Giving her a double-thumbs up, Sanders nodded and flipped the stereo back on, bobbing his head in time to the music. Cath knew that he drank so much of his gourmet coffee during their shifts that he usually worked a few extra hours just to come down from all the caffeine in his system. It didn't matter; Grissom always approved his overtime. Greg Sanders was, after all, the best lab tech they had in the Las Vegas P.D. crime labs.

On the short drive to Denny's, Brass had to ask: "So, you know about DNA voodoo as well: alleles, markers, primers, sequences, and all that jazz?" He laughed softly at the lingo and lowered the volume on the radio as he spoke. "I thought you did bugs and dirt, and stuff like that."

Mickey could tell that he was simply repeating the vocabulary that he'd heard her and Sanders using, but she really didn't think he'd been paying attention in there, and was more focused on his conversation with Catherine Willows; that's what his body language had been anyway. Then she figured that's what made him a good detective: look at something else, but notice details on everything.

"Well, yes, most of it is the same, especially my graduate projects. Bacterial DNA is just so much easier to work with, but…" Brass glanced over when she stopped, curious about her thoughtful expression.

"But?" he prompted.

"I have technicians to do most of it for me these days, though I do still set up my own research projects, to keep my hand in. My job description right now to sign reports, go to meetings, you know, assistant supervisor things."

He thought she sounded almost apologetic for her success, like she really didn't deserve it. Jim had gone through the same thing when he made detective, on the first try, in 1979.

"Good. Now you're the boss," he said, grasping her hand as he drove with the other. "Seriously, I know I joke about grad school and all that. You've told me plenty of stories. I'm proud of you, Mickey. So's your Mom, and so's your Dad."

She looked over at him and seemed embarrassed by his warm praise. "Thanks, Uncle Jimmy. That means a lot from you, honest."

He was going to joke but he stopped himself. "You're welcome." As they pulled into the Denny's parking lot, he continued in a deliberately thicker Bostonian accent: "Now, lemme pahk the cah in Hahvahd yahd. I'm stahvin' half to death heah."

TBC


	5. Comfort food

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP, but I was bitten in a recent plot bunny attack (October 2007) and decided to dust this one off and see where it goes. It is a much longer companion piece to the "Better Brass biography" posted over at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group.

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

Chapter 05/??

"Comfort Food"

(A Wednesday night in mid-May)

It was about 5:00 in the evening when Brass pulled up at the Hilton Convention Center, and recognized Mickey sitting at a shaded bench along the crescent driveway. Sunglasses on against the bright afternoon sun, she was partly facing the other way, apparently engrossed in what looked like a well-worn paperback novel. He eased along the curb behind her, then hit the police lights and bells he had in his car for a few seconds. She jumped to her feet, startled at his voice:

"Hold it right there, Miss!" He said it through the open passenger side window, loud enough that she and a few passersby could hear him.

"Jee-zus!" Mickey turned to see who it was. Then she laughed when she recognized the cop in the unmarked car. "Pain in the ass…"

Jim was laughing as he got out, coming around to help her with her travel bag and briefcase. A few pedestrians had stopped, curiously watching them and wondering who was going to be arrested or something. Brass had his badge to wave at them as he put it into his coat pocket.

"Evening, folks," he said as he put his sunglasses in another pocket. He chuckled as he leaned down close to her ear: "Scared you, didn't I?"

Mickey grabbed her travel bag and slung it to the backseat, leaving the briefcase and laptop computer for her uncle.

"I'm telling my mom on you," she said, climbing in on the front passenger side. She waited until he got in on the driver's side. "Oh, _nice_ tie rack, Uncle Jimmy," teased Mickey, making fun of the collection of half dozen or so neckties that rested over the center of the front seat of his car.

He smirked at her and put his sunglasses back on, pulling out onto Las Vegas Boulevard. "You better shush." His shirt collar was open at the neck: no tie selection had been made yet for work. "Whatcha readin'?"

She showed him the cover. "Robin Cook's 'Toxin'. This one's about _E. coli_ contamination of the U.S. ground beef supply."

"Oh, okay. That sounds like fun," he said, rolling his eyes even though she couldn't see his face. "What's good for dinner, kiddo?"

Mickey scrunched up her nose and reached into the backseat to put the book in the outer pocket of her briefcase. "Please, anything but hamburgers. I'm a little grossed out right now."

"I bet."

"What's with all of the lobster in these places? It's advertised everywhere on the Strip."

Brass shrugged. "Tourists want prime rib and lobster, living the Las Vegas high life. They think all the rules change out here."

"Any good?"

Now it was his turn to scrunch up his nose in distaste. "Not if you've been to Boston or Maine. You see any oceans out here, Doc?"

She nodded in understanding. "Makes sense. I got spoiled purely rotten in Bar Harbor with all of the twin lobster dinners. Cheap and right off the boats, but too much effort. I've switched to lobster rolls if I bother."

He agreed. "How about Italian? I know a place over by Nellis."

"Oh yeah, that'll work."

The restaurant was a small, family-owned place, on a quiet side street. The name "Angelo's" glowed invitingly in red neon from the front window. Jim ushered her inside ahead of him with a gentle hand at her back. There were eight red and white checked, cloth-covered tables, a red glass and candle gleaming from each one. Mickey and Jim were the first customers of the night, but it was early yet.

"Jimmy! _JesusMaryandJoseph_," came a strong voice as an elderly woman made her way around the counter to greet them. She wore the traditional black of a Mediterranean widow and was drying her hands on an apron she had around her waist. Maybe five feet tall on a good day and in high heels, she beamed up at him until he bent to let her kiss him on both cheeks. "Captain Jimmy. You look happy today. Come in, come in."

"Hi Jackie," he said when she finally let him stand back up. "Jackie, this is…"

"Who's your pretty new girlfriend, Jimmy? Good for you," she continued, reaching over to pat Mickey's arm. "You gonna get married or you just shacking up for now?" Her accent was thick, East coast Italian, and it made Mickey smile in recognition of the real Newark, New Jersey neighborhoods.

"Jackie, meet my niece, Dr. Mickey Kaye. She's visiting this week from Florida," Brass explained, winking at Mickey over the wizened head.

Mama Jackie gasped with delight, and pulled Mickey's face down to kiss both cheeks and generally make a big fuss over her. "A pretty and smart niece! And a doctor? Good for you, Jimmy, good for you."

"And Mick, this is Mama Jackie Turgeon. She runs the place."

Mickey smiled warmly and reached to take a gnarled but strong hand in hers. "Glad to meet you, ma'am."

"What's this _ma'am_ bullshit? You call me Mama Jackie, okay?" Mickey was pulled by the hand to a table in the back; Brass followed in their wake. "Best table in the house, for you, beautiful Mickey. Hey Tony!" She called into the kitchen as they were seated. "Come and meet the new doctor."

A middle-aged man came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands dry on a tomato-sauce stained apron. He was balding and thickset; an extremely powerful looking man, but not very tall.

"Yeah, Mama. What's up?" he asked, then he recognized Brass. "Hey hey, Jimmy! Right on time, every two weeks." He greeted Jim with a thump on the back, smiling broadly at his friend. Mama Jackie patted Mickey again on the shoulder, and made her way into the kitchen, leaving her son to his waiter duties.

"Tony, this is my niece, Mickey, from Florida," Jim said by way of introduction. "Mick, Little Tony Turgeon."

Mickey grinned and shook his hand, glad that all of her digits remained intact after his strong grip. "Hi, Tony."

"Little, my ass, huh Jimmy? Nice to meet you, Mickey. Too bad you're related to this _Capitano Ottone_," he teased, translating the detective's surname. "Nothin' good looking can be related to this guy."

"_Grazie mille_," she replied easily. "He's okay." She winked at Jim, appreciating Tony's joke.

Tony laughed heartily, a big belly laugh. "_Lei parla italiano, bella Doctora_?

"_Si, un poco. Non parlo bene la sua lingua; mi dispiace_." Jim's lower jaw dropped in surprise listening to her. He spoke a tiny bit of Italian, but it wasn't exactly the mixed-company kind, and certainly not in front of his own niece. It was too idiom-rich.

"Coulda fooled me then, Doc. What'll you have to drink?"

"House red, please," said Mickey. Tony nodded and turned to Jim.

"Iced tea." Their waiter scoffed quietly. "Hey, I gotta go to work after. Gimme a break, brother."

Tony waved. "I'm kidding. I know you gotta go to work at the friggin' cop shop, _paisan_." He returned to the kitchen, laughing to himself.

Mickey leaned closer across the table. "Hey, if he's 'Little Tony', who's bigger?" she whispered.

"Oh, his dad was 'Big Tony'. He died about eight years ago." Mickey nodded, understanding. "We miss him, too. I had my first college job at their restaurant in Newark when I was at Seton," Jim explained quietly. "I didn't know you spoke Italian."

She smiled, blushing. "I don't. Well, just enough to be polite, order from a menu, have another beer, and find the bathroom. I took French for my Ph.D. language requirement." Mickey chuckled. "I'm much better at picking up accents, though."

"Really? Like what?"

"Jersey, Boston of course, New York, Charleston, whatever. Tommy and I used to do it for fun on road trips." She referred to her next older brother, now a parish priest in Clearwater, Florida.

"Father Tom does accents? No way." Jim had to smile trying to picture it: saying Mass and sounding like John Wayne, Richard Burton, or Marlon Brando. _Yikes_.

"Yes way. His boss at Holy Spirit parish is from Dublin. Tommy just kills me with that one," said Mickey. "I don't know if he's ever done it in front of the guy or not. Probably has."

Mickey poured olive oil onto the small plate of herbs and swirled it around with a piece of bread from the cloth-covered basket that Tony had just brought them. Jim chuckled.

"I always wondered what that was for," he said, indicating the fresh herbs.

Mickey frowned slightly, thinking he was kidding. "I thought you worked at their place back in Jersey?"

Brass held up both hands and waggled his fingers, chuckling slightly. "Dishes, in the back. I was too Irish for Big Tony to let me wait tables."

"Excuse me, Jimmy," said Tony, placing an iced tea in front of him, followed by a carafe of wine and a single glass in front of Mickey. "Paisano red alright, Doc?" She had a mouthful of bread, but gave him a thumbs-up. Tony expertly poured her first glassful and then collected the pair of menus from the edge of the table. Jim and Mickey hadn't even looked at them.

"What's for dinner, folks?" he asked.

"I'd like the chicken parmesan, please," said Mickey. Jim held up two fingers, making Tony nod and grin at him.

"And the usual for the Captain; two chicken parm. I'll be right back with your salads."

Jim tried the olive oil and herb mixture on the fresh bread, and decided that he liked it. "I checked the baseball schedule, and the 51's are on the road all week. So, no baseball I'm afraid."

"Fifty-ones? What's that name from?" She took a taste of the wine, savoring it.

"As in Area 51, where Uncle Sam supposedly keeps the aliens." He widened his eyes spookily.

"Oh, I love it. Who's their Big League big brother?" asked Mickey.

Jim paused, thinking a moment. "Dodgers."

She had to smirk at that and commented: "National league candy-asses."

Brass shook his head and laughed, fondly amused at her use of her grandfather Brass' old expression. It was a completely illogical bias against the league that made the pitchers also take a turn at bat. American League teams, such as the Boston Red Sox, used designated hitters (DH) in place of the pitchers who were supposed to rest between innings. This practice had been initiated in professional baseball in 1972.

Turgeon returned soon with their salads, and Mickey went to work removing several large rings of raw, red onion, setting them aside on a paper napkin. Jim grinned and scooped them up for his plate.

"Oh, come on, Doc. These are good for you," he teased.

"Gross," she said, reaching for the salad dressings in their tiny carousel and reading their labeled spoons. "Hmm, what do I feel like today? French, Ranch, Bleu cheese, Italian…" Mickey went with the bleu cheese and immediately speared a huge piece of the moldy cheese from atop her salad.

"Gross yourself," said Jim, grimacing at her enthusiasm. He went with the Italian dressing.

"No, _live bugs_," she told him. "Have you ever seen how they make cheese? It is so nasty."

He eyed the bleu cheese container suspiciously, trying not to smile. "Really?"

Her eyes were twinkling and he knew he had found a topic she had taught in her classes at the college.

"Yeah, _really_. I love doing the food micro lectures; yogurt, pickles, sauerkraut, cheese, soy sauce, you name it. My students get a little freaked out sometimes, especially after we do the labs…"

"Like what labs?" Jim continued eating his salad and broke off more of the fresh bread.

"Making yogurt and sauerkraut; separately of course. Both are pretty disgusting while in production." Mickey laughed heartily.

"And you _eat_ this stuff?" He was starting to wonder if anything made Mickey squeamish, apart from a few paperback novels.

She shrugged. "Sure. I've got to set a good example and evaluate their lab work."

Brass laughed with her, shaking his head. "Sounds like a helluva class, kiddo."

"My favorite," said Mickey. "I was wondering, do you ever get back to Boston, Uncle Jim?"

"It's been a while. Just Dad's funeral in '92, and Mom's of course, after college, but that was closer. I was still in Jersey back then," he told her. "I talk on the phone with Pete, Johnny and your mother every couple of weeks. Petey's the only one without e-mail."

"I know," she replied with a chuckle. "I was up there last October. He doesn't like computers. Daddy finally got a Dell system; we kids pitched in for his birthday two years ago and got it set up at the house. Man, it took forever to convince him to not write in emails in all caps."

"What's that mean?"

"It's the Internet equivalent of shouting. He said he was used to it from the Navy. I guess all their memos are in capital letters or something."

Just then, Tony came by with their dinner plates, both of which were heavily laden with chicken Parmesan, penne pasta and a gorgeous tomato sauce. Mama Jackie had obviously put her heart into this meal for her adopted son and his niece.

"Oh my goodness," exclaimed Mickey when she saw the portions. "Tony, I can tell you right now I'm going to need a to-go-box."

Tony laughed. "You got it, Doc. Anything else? Jimmy?"

Jim didn't answer right away since he'd already taken a bite and was chewing furiously, trying not to burn himself. "No, brother. I may die happy here and now. We're good."

Tony patted him on the shoulder. "Enjoy."

Mickey cut her entire serving in half and pushed some of it aside on her plate. "Wow. This is great."

"Yeah, Mama Jackie makes all of the sauces herself. None of that can or jar B.S." He sighed with pleasure and remembered to tuck a napkin under his chin to at least partly protect his white shirtfront. "I think hers is a food group unto itself."

"Good thing I swam this morning," said Mickey.

"How far do you swim each day anyway?" Jim asked. "Just curious."

Mickey shrugged. "I try for a mile or more every day. Sometimes two or three miles; it depends what kind of day it's been."

"At sixteen hundred yards per mile?" Jim sounded incredulous. "Jeez."

"Sure. Two or five thousand on a good day in the summer, especially if I'm stressed out," she told him, and then she laughed at the look on her uncle's face. "What's so funny?"

"I nearly drowned like a damn rat doing one hundred yards for the Police Academy back in Jersey. Our cadets out here swim one-fifty downtown."

Her eyes widened. "There's a pool at your office? You didn't tell me that!"

Jim grinned. "I didn't? Yeah, it's down in the basement of the PD. The morgue is under the labs." He pantomimed two buildings side by side with his hands.

"I'll have to check it out then." Mickey sighed, pushing her plate to one side and poured another glass of wine from the carafe. "Great choice, Uncle Jimmy. This has to be the best chicken parm I've ever had; the real deal."

"Which is why I only come in every two weeks," he told her. "Any more often and I'd be bigger than my house. Hey, swimming reminds me…you still going out with that Spanish swimmer you met on the Master's team?"

"Portuguese. Um, no. Gustavo developed some serious memory problems later in our relationship," Mickey said as evenly as she could. She was silent for several moments, finishing the glass of wine and pouring another. Brass had interviewed enough people over the years in the course of his job as a detective to see that her eyes had gone hard. He also knew when to ask another question and when to wait. He waited.

"Yes, he somehow _forgot_ to mention that he had a wife and three kids back in Lisbon," she said, shaking her head. "We were together for not quite two years, and I had no idea. How stupid was I, huh?"

Jim smiled at her gently, sympathetically. "Not at all, Mick. You don't cheat, you don't suspect, right? It sucks, I know."

Mickey looked at him then, grateful. She finally understood something she had heard years ago about her Aunt Nancy, Jim's ex-wife. She exhaled loudly before she continued, looking back down at her wineglass. "What I still don't get at all was his reaction when I confronted him about it, like I was the bad guy in the whole situation."

Watching her fiddle distractedly with the base of the wineglass, and with the ring on her right hand, Jim got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The air of sadness about her was heartbreaking to him.

"Did he hit you?" he asked quietly, concern in his tone.

She didn't look up, but shook her head. "No."

He reached across the table to touch her on the arm. "Mickey, look at me please."

"His style was more verbal abuse, I guess," she said, looking him directly in the eye. Jim could see tears brimming, but her voice was steady. "But there sure as hell were times when I wish he had; then I'd have some proof about what was going on." Mickey sighed again, this time almost tearfully. She finished the wine and poured yet another. Brass thought she looked completely sober when she excused herself from the table. "I'll be right back, Uncle Jimmy."

Jim shook his head and was a little startled when Tony came over with the check. "How was everything, Jimbo?" He transferred Mickey's leftovers to a takeout tray, and set it with a pre-made package of bread, herbs and olive oil.

"Oh, outstanding as usual, Tony," he replied finally, sounding distracted to his friend. He counted out several bills from his wallet after a quick glance at the ticket.

Turgeon chuckled. "I thought she was the one drinkin' since you gotta go to work tonight."

Jim literally shook himself to pay attention. "Yeah, I'm sorry. Mickey was just telling me about the dipshit ex-boyfriend back in Florida. A real sweetheart."

Tony tutted in disbelief, his eyebrows knitted. "You gotta be kidding me, and a looker like the doc? Guy needs his head cracked open."

The two old friends sat and chatted a few minutes. The restaurant was not yet busy, but a few other diners had arrived for an early dinner. When Mickey came back to the table, she downed her wine in short order and saw that Tony had prepared her to-go package. They stood when she arrived.

"Thanks for that, Tony. Leftover Italian is still one of my favorite breakfasts," she told him. Both men could see that she'd been crying in the ladies room and sensitively made no mention of it.

"Absolutely my pleasure, Doc," he said, taking her hand in both of his and looking very seriously into her eyes. The image was humorous since his hands were so big. "And enjoy the rest of your stay in Vegas. You need anybody taken care of, you just call your pal Little Tony. That goombah back home is a friggin' idiot, pardon my French." He winked at her as he spoke.

Mickey glanced over at Brass who just shrugged an apology. He was glad when she didn't seem to be angry about his letting the cat out of the bag, so to speak. She smiled very faintly. "I may just do that," she said, finishing the last of the wine. A mischievous glint had returned to her eyes.

Tony laughed heartily and hugged her. "Now that sounds like a kick ass Brass I know." He and Jim shook hands and embraced roughly.

"Take care, brother," said Jim.

"Yeah, see you in a coupla weeks, Jimbo."

Back out on the street, Jim put one arm around Mickey's shoulders and pulled out his cell phone with his free hand. She had her hands full as they walked together to his car, keeping pace perfectly.

"I found some stuff at the house that might cheer you up, kid. How about we get a gallon of that Dago red and take the rest of the night off? What do you think about that?"

She looked at him questioningly. "What about the bad guys, Uncle Jimmy? Won't they miss you?"

He grinned as he hit the speed dial to reach LVMPD dispatch. "They can take the rest of the night off too. We have a family emergency to take care of."

Mickey actually grinned back, appreciating his generous offer. "Cool."

TBC


	6. Nassau bets

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP, but I was bitten in a recent plot bunny attack (October 2007) and decided to dust this one off and see where it goes. It is a much longer companion piece to the "Better Brass biography" posted over at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group.

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

Chapter 06/??

"Nassau Bets"

(A Thursday morning in mid-May)

It had been a good idea. Between the two of them, they nearly finished off the gallon of red wine. The "cheer you up stuff" turned out to be a large plastic storage bin of photographs and school yearbooks. They talked and laughed a lot, late into the night.

Mickey had cried again as she went into more details about her recently-ended relationship, but Brass could see that it was more with relief than anything. She hadn't yet spoken of it with anyone, really, and it was like a burden had been lifted from her back. In a way, Jim had been comforted too when she wept in his embrace: he had never really been available to help Ellie in this way, or at least, it hadn't happened yet. His niece was becoming a surrogate daughter to him, and this time, there was a bond of blood. He truly did love Ellie Rebecca as his child, the child of his heart.

The best part of the evening though, had been the Canton High School yearbooks, known as "The Echo", and the photos of the four Kaye siblings and a few of their cousins as well. Mickey had never seen Jim's high school pictures before, and couldn't help giggling long after he'd finally hidden them away (he wasn't upset with her; he'd gotten the giggles too, after all. Jim couldn't remember when he had been so thin. He had more hair back then too).

They had both fallen asleep in the living room, shortly after midnight. At some point during the night Jim had dragged himself upstairs to his own bed. He had learned after a couple of attempts to wake her that Mickey wasn't leaving her spot on the couch, so he covered her with a blanket against the chill, gently kissed her on the side of her head, and hoped she was comfortable. She looked it anyway, her face untroubled in slumber.

Jim woke with the sunrise, surprised at how rested he felt given the hour and the volume of wine they'd consumed. He showered, shaved and dressed fairly quickly, then headed downstairs with thoughts of coffee and breakfast. As he passed the guest bedroom, the door was ajar and he saw that the bed had not been slept in. Instead, Mickey's travel bag was lying on top of the bedspread, open and partly sorted through. He couldn't help chuckling to himself.

Out in the living room, there was still no sign of his niece. The pillow and neatly folded blanket were stacked on the back of the sofa. He looked toward the balcony and saw that the vertical blinds were opened wide enough to get in and out of the sliding glass door. Coming closer, he could see Mickey on his exercise bike: headphones on, sweating and pedaling God only knew how far (he couldn't see the digital read-out screen but it looked like she'd been at it awhile judging from the sweat droplets that splashed on the deck beneath her and the bike). There was also a faint smile on her face.

"Good for you, Mouse," he said quietly as he went to the kitchen to fire up the coffee pot.

A few minutes later, coffee cup in hand, he stepped out onto the balcony. "Mick," he said, but she didn't hear him over the music from her CD player. He winced at the volume and could hear his mother's own admonishments about his stereo system years ago at the house in Canton. Jim realized that he couldn't have named the group if you paid him a hundred bucks. "Mickey," he said more loudly, stepping into her field of view.

She grinned broadly when she noticed him there and pulled off the headphones. "Hi, Uncle Jimmy." She reached down to switch off the CD. "Van Halen. Best workout compilation I've found yet." Mickey wiped her face with a towel and grabbed the water bottle from the bike's console. "Too bad I can't swim with this headset on; gotta work on that, maybe Best Buy has something I can use."

"You sleep okay on the couch? There was no way I could carry you upstairs," he explained, sitting in one of the patio chairs and sipping from his coffee.

She shrugged, climbing gingerly off the bike. "It was quite comfy, actually. I think I learned to sleep anywhere when I was a graduate student, to tell the truth. Flat broke all the damn time."

Jim laughed. "Good. I'm glad to see that thing still works. I wasn't sure…"

Mickey frowned a moment, then glanced over at the bike where he was pointing. She had to laugh too. "It's one of the better ones on the market, I'm impressed. But I did have to dust it off before I sat down…yuck." She raised her eyebrow at him, using his own mildly sarcastic expression.

He arched one right back at her and chuckled. "_Whatever_, Doc. There's coffee ready inside."

"Thanks. I'd better get cleaned up and fit for human company first," she said, and then looked down at the empty bottle in her hand before she looked back up at him. "Uncle Jim, thank you for calling in last night. I know you don't like to miss work for personal stuff."

He stood and came over, squeezing her nose affectionately between two fingers. "You're worth it, Mickey, seriously. Phew, and you're right about getting cleaned up first!"

She smacked his arm playfully and went ahead of him back into the house. From behind, Jim saw a two inch, black ink Mickey Mouse tattoo on her right shoulder blade. The character was posed with his hands on his hips and a cheesy grin on his face. It suited his niece's personality perfectly, he thought.

"Hey, that's not a jailhouse tatt, is it?"

"Spring break, 1988. Tommy, Maggie and I all got one at the same time, in St. Augustine." She went to the kitchen to get another bottle of water; he went for a refill on his coffee.

Jim shook his head and smiled in disbelief; he had one or two himself. "What'd your Mom say?"

"Not much," said Mickey. "She has an Irish rose; Daddy has several different ones from his Navy days."

Uncle Jim rolled his eyes, amused at the idea of his older sister getting inked, and he remembered that his oldest brother Pete had gotten a traditional firefighter-designed one when he first joined the fire department in Boston.

"Well, fine. I won't show you my other one then," she told him and he could hear her snickering as she went upstairs for a shower. For a brief moment, he wondered _where the hell is it?_

Breakfast turned out to be cereal, bananas, orange juice and coffee when Jim realized he needed to get to the grocery store. Mickey had offered her leftovers, but his stomach wasn't ready for chicken Parmesan at eight in the morning. Neither was hers to tell the truth.

"What's the golf course over that way called?" Mickey asked, pointing in the general direction of the balcony.

"Black Hill. I'm not sure who designed it, but it's been out here in Henderson since the 50's," he answered, and a thought came to him: "Feel like playing eighteen today?"

Mickey looked absolutely delighted at the idea. "Seriously? Do you think we can get a tee time?"

Brass shrugged. "Can't hurt to ask. I know a guy at the pro shop, he owes me a favor."

While she cleared their dirty dishes, Jim reached for the portable phone. He also reached over to the counter for a small brown notebook in which he kept addresses and telephone numbers, and flipped several pages before he found the correct one for the pro shop at Black Hill G.C.

"You want to try for this morning? Thursday can't be as busy as the weekends, I'm guessing." She nodded immediately, turning to look at him from the sink. "Good morning, is Vince Livingston in today? Thanks."

Mickey dried her hands on the kitchen towel and leaned against the side counter quietly. Uncle Jim had to smile at her look of anticipation.

"Vince? Hey, Jim Brass. Good, thanks. How's Annie? Wow, already?" He nodded at something the man on the other end of the line said. "Listen, any chance of a tee time this morning? My niece is visiting from Florida and needs to try out some of our desert golf before she heads back home to the humidity. Yeah, 9:26 sounds great. Thanks Vince. See you in a few."

Jim rang off and started to tell her the good news, but Mickey had checked her watch and raced to the guest bedroom for a collared golf shirt to go with her khaki shorts. She knew that most golf courses had a minimum dress code of collared shirt and no metal spikes; in this case, she was exactly right.

They drove over and it only took a few minutes. Jim had loaded his set of clubs into the trunk of the car; Mickey suggested that most courses had decent rentals that she could use. As they walked to the pro shop, Jim had to ask:

"So, you're going to take it easy on your favorite uncle, right?"

She turned and shrugged. "Yeah, I suppose. When did you last play, Uncle Jim?"

He set his clubs against the wooden drop-off rack, and then held the door open for her to go in ahead of him. "I think it was nineteen ninety something. How about you?"

"Last Saturday; there was a best-ball format tournament at the Seminole Lakes by my house. We did okay."

Jim rolled his eyes at her grin, thinking _Oh shit_.

Mickey opened her wallet and pulled out a corporate credit card. "How about I get this one? We just have to talk about my lab stuff a little bit to make it an official write off," she offered. He simply nodded knowing better than to protest too much. Besides, he could get lunch.

The older man behind the counter immediately recognized Brass and held out his hand. "Good morning, Jim. You haven't been out here in ages," he said by way of greeting.

"Yeah, I know Vince, lotta bad guys to take care of over in Vegas, which gets in the way of my game sometimes. This is my niece I told you about on the phone. Dr. Mickey Kaye, meet Vince Livingston."

"Welcome to Nevada, Doc. What can we do for you today?"

Mickey smiled. "Two for riding eighteen, and I need to rent a set of clubs."

"Any preference? You're a tall young lady," commented Livingston.

"Men's right-handed, please, oh, and a dozen of the Lady Precept MC balls. My stuff is all back home, darnit."

Livingston gave her a wink and left the counter momentarily. When he returned, he had a golf bag full of clubs and placed a box of balls in front of her. He checked his starter's sheet.

"I've got an older Scottish couple from overseas hoping for another twosome; they're extremely nice and have been here all week. You mind pairing up with them? It'll be a good guys against the gals."

She had to laugh at the look from Uncle Jim. "Excellent!"

Vince chuckled too. "Anything else?"

Jim spoke up. "And two buckets. You kids are trying to kill me here."

Livingston pulled out two range ball machine tokens and handed them over to the detective, along with a key and chain. "The starter will call you at about five minutes before you go off at the first tee. Cart number six, Jim."

Brass smiled and gave him a look that said _thanks a lot, pal_ as he followed Mickey out to the electric carts lined up by the door. The attendant had already loaded Jim's clubs onto the cart, driver-side, and nodded pleasantly as the two approached. He took Mickey's rental clubs from her and loaded them on the back as well.

"You're all set, folks."

"Thank you. Which way to the driving range?" Mickey asked as she sat on the passenger side.

The elderly attendant smiled indulgently and pointed to the paved path. "Follow the signs, you can't miss it."

Jim came around from the back where he'd been pulling some items from his golf bag. He shook hands with the man and gave him a cellophane-wrapped cigar, to the man's obvious delight.

"Thanks, Captain. Have a good round today," said the retiree. "You ain't been out here much lately."

Jim rolled his eyes at all of the reminders and sighed. "I know, Sam. The job…"

Sam chuckled as he tucked the cigar into his shirt pocket. "No shit. That's why I retired. Being a cop was hell on my golf, Jim."

Mickey, who had been transferring bottles of water from her backpack to the holders in the front of the cart, was about to ask Uncle Jim how he knew Vince and Sam. Then she realized that there were probably quite a few retired policemen now living out in Henderson, NV, and plenty of golf courses.

Brass put his three remaining cigars in the front compartment and made sure the cart's forward gear was engaged. As they headed around to the driving range, Jim handed over the two metal tokens (they'd get the buckets of practice balls from the machine at the range) and indicated his handful of cigars in the front storage console, next to his cell phone and a new sleeve of Top-flite golf balls.

"It's not going to bother you if I light up out here is it?" he asked.

Mickey smiled and shook her head. "Not at all. I think it's traditional for you guys."

Jim frowned slightly, a question, and wondered if there was an East coast tradition he'd forgotten about.

"Dad, Jack and Tommy always get cigars when we play golf together," she explained, and then she wrinkled her nose. "I tried one once, didn't like it."

Brass chuckled at that. "I get it. How often do you play the 'Kaye eighteen'?"

Mickey grinned before replying: the name had been coined by her mother years before since Margaret and daughter Maggie rarely played in these foursomes, preferring tennis to golf. "Most years it's Thanksgiving or Christmas, but not both since Jack is back at the hospital for at least one major holiday. Sometimes it's Easter."

Jim nodded. He knew that his oldest nephew was a practicing pediatrician, and divorced with two children, in Tampa, Florida.

"Anyway, we usually play pairs in an alternating shot format to see who wins," she continued. "Dad and I rarely play on the same team anymore though; we're not allowed." She had a funny smile on her face just then.

"Why not? I thought it was you and your mother who drove each other completely crazy sometimes," he wondered as they pulled up next to the ball machine. Jim watched as she positioned the small bucket under the dispenser and dropped the token in with a soft metal click.

Mickey actually laughed out loud, over the noise of the ball dispenser. "No, that's totally different, Uncle Jimmy," she said, exchanging the full bucket for an empty and repeating the process. "Mom thinks my life is meaningless unless I marry a Naval aviator, at least a lieutenant commander on his way to an X.O. post in some exotic place."

Jim cocked one eyebrow. "She didn't, and Jack's a good guy." Brass loved his sister dearly, but had been on the receiving end of her "advice" for most of his life. Margaret, now a real estate agent in Ocala after Jack Kaye had retired from the Navy as a Senior chief, was just as pig-headed and opinionated as her little brother James. No surprise there.

"Exactly. No, Daddy and I did team up against the boys one Christmas," she explained as she climbed back into the cart with the second bucket. "Wasn't pretty." Mickey flashed him a positively wolfish grin when she said that.

"What was the bet?" It was only a short drive farther to reach the hitting mats. A few golfers were scattered at the driving range, practicing their long and short shots. Soft exclamations and even muttered curses could be heard from time to time.

The grin widened. "They had to be our personal slaves for the rest of the day. It was _really_ fun." Mickey was giggling when she got out of the cart and carried the buckets to the vacant mats they'd parked by. "Mom finagled the same deal by default so they were busy dudes. Poor things."

While Mickey moved off to one side (he didn't see where), Jim grabbed his driver from the bag and teed up his first ball. It took a few swings and misses before he actually made contact, but he kept up an internal monologue from the last golf lesson he'd seen on TV. (good God, when was that?): _head down, eye on the ball, follow through. Head down, eye on the_…

On about the sixth or seventh ball, he hit a spectacular drive straight down the middle of the range, at least two hundred yards in flight. It tailed off perfectly, just at the end.

"Hey, did you see that?" he asked Mickey. To his surprise, she hadn't even started hitting yet and wasn't on the mat next to his. Jim turned back toward the cart and found her stretching both legs, facing away from the range. "Oh, there you are." Brass grinned a little sheepishly at himself.

"I didn't see it but it sounded good," she told him as she pulled out a short iron and headed toward their mats. Mickey stretched the club far behind her neck, loosening shoulder and back muscles as she walked.

"What are you doin'?" Jim nodded at her navy blue Boston Red Sox visor. "Like the hat, Mick."

"If I don't stretch, my back will freeze up on me by the third hole," was the reply. "Oh, thanks. Did you know they came out with a _pink_ fan visor like this?" He unconsciously mirrored the disgusted look on her face. "I found this one at Quincy Market, last time I was back."

Seeing Mickey dump out half of the bucket of balls onto her mat, Jim went back to whaling away with the driver. Every other hit or so had him mentally celebrating at how well the golf ball was flying away from him. The others? Well, he didn't want to count those.

Jim finished his bucket long before she did, so he packed up his last club and lounged in the driver's seat of the golf cart to watch. With a contented sigh, he got a cigar lit and sat back. It was going to be a warm day and he was glad to have remembered the ball cap, even if it was from the LVMPD softball tournament two years ago.

He noticed that Mickey was methodically trying out each iron of the rental set with five balls lined up on the carpeted mat, hitting all five with more or less the same swing. Inevitably, the third or fourth ball would strike the wooden distance marker sign (75, 100, 125, 150 yards, and so on) with a satisfying "thunk". If this practice session was anything to go by, his niece's short game was deadly accurate. She had yet to break out the driver or any of the woods, and Jim found himself curious. He also noticed that a few of the other golfers paused to quietly watch her as they made their way to the 1st or 10th tees. Jim couldn't help but feel a touch of pride at that.

Mickey hit one last handful of golf balls using the sand wedge (the shortest of the clubs usually, and the one with the greatest face angle). A couple of the shots landed on a miniature trampoline target about fifty yards away. This made her smile with satisfaction as she came back to the cart to switch to the driver. Apparently the "SW" club was a favorite.

"Just a few with the one-wood, Uncle Jim," she said, heading back to the mat.

He gave a "godfather" wave with the cigar in his hand. "No rush, kid. I'm really enjoying this no-beeper, no-cell phone thing right now."

Mickey grinned, understanding what he meant and hit about a half-dozen shots with the driver. The last one nearly matched his for distance and accuracy on the range so she decided to end on that high note. When she rejoined him at the cart, they drove the short distance to the practice putting green that was situated between the 1st and 10th tee boxes. A few other golfers idled here while they waited to be called by the starter.

"So, what's the bet?" asked Brass as they putted to the same small red flag. "After all, this is your big trip to Vegas."

"Um, I don't know. I don't usually gamble on the golf course unless it's Dad and the boys."

He shrugged. "Nothing complicated then. What do you think?"

Mickey paused and looked at him speculatively for a moment. "OK, how about a Nassau; three on the front and three on the back?"

The detective raised one eyebrow at her, a combination of a smirk and a question that she misinterpreted. "What about five on the front and five on the back?" she offered. "That'll mean I have to win by ten or more."

Jim laughed, surprised. He gripped her shoulder gently, teasing affectionately. "Mouse, I thought you just said you don't usually gamble on the golf course. You sharkin' me?" He chuckled and she finally realized he'd been teasing the whole time.

"Just because I don't _usually_ gamble doesn't mean I don't know _how_ _to_, Uncle Jimmy. You want the five and five?"

"Sure. What are we playing for?" He could see the wheels turning as she thought about it.

Mickey putted toward another small red flag, and watched as it sank perfectly into the hole. "Dinner at Angelo's before I head back to Florida. That was good stuff." Brass took the hand she offered and they shook on the bet.

"Done," he said, realizing from the crafty look in her eye that he'd gotten off easy. In the next moment, he fervently hoped he didn't lose by _much_ more than ten strokes.

About five minutes before their assigned tee time, the starter called for them over the loudspeaker: "Brass, twosome and Dickson, twosome. Please report to the first tee box. Brass and Dickson, thank you."

Jim adjusted his ball cap and accepted the bottle of water Mickey offered. He grinned broadly around the cigar in his mouth. "Here we go, kid. I'm gonna really enjoy that dinner you're about to owe me." Talking "smack" was part of the Brass family sports book. Mickey just smiled sweetly as she moved her sunglasses in the cart storage space.

An older, well-dressed couple waited at the first tee and nodded in welcome as they drove up. The woman, smiling, held out her hand to Mickey as she got out of the cart.

"You must be the Brasses. Good morning, I'm June Dickson and this is my husband Alastair." Mickey found the soft Scottish accent delightful, and thought _this is going to be fun_.

"Very nice to meet you," said Mickey. "I'm Mickey Kaye, and this is my uncle, Jim Brass."

Alastair winked at her as he shook hands with them. "Hope you dinna mind duffers, lassie. I saw you over at the driving range."

Mickey smiled modestly. "No problem. We'll use holiday rules."

And they were off. As Alastair had predicted, he and his wife were indeed poor golfers, but were both at an age where they didn't care one bit. Jim got off to a rocky start on the first hole, though he managed a miraculous one-over-par bogey in the end. Mickey, on the other hand, was relaxed and enjoying the morning, letting herself "be on vacation" for a while at least. She ran a string of four pars in a row, and _then_ started to really play well.

Jim and Mickey both enjoyed the conversation and company of the older couple, June and Alastair. Turns out, they were from Inverness, on the east coast of Scotland, and were just ending their Las Vegas holiday. Jim offered a cigar, much to Alastair's delight, and the men ended up riding in the same cart.

TBC


	7. Doctor of Chiropractic Medicine

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP, but I was bitten in a recent plot bunny attack (October 2007) and decided to dust this one off and see where it goes. It is a much longer companion piece to the "Better Brass biography" posted over at the "jimbrass" Yahoo group.

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: Mild lemon…T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

Chapter 07/??

"Doctor of Chiropractic Medicine"

(A Saturday morning in mid-May)

"Jim? Hello, anybody home?" Catherine called, taking her key from the front door lock. She put her overnight bag and purse on the floor of the foyer and shut the door behind her, locking it.

"Hey, Catherine. I'm in here," he called back from the kitchen. "Did Lindsey get to her Girl Scout thing okay?"

Willows came around the corner to the kitchen and found him in pajama pants and a white t-shirt, finishing up a few dirty dishes at the sink. She had to smile at the domestic picture he made just then, and how cute he was in those long, blue cotton pants. His dark hair was still damp from showering after work.

"Oh, yes, and she's thrilled beyond belief over her second ever Brownie camping trip." She stood uncertainly and rested one hand on the back of a chair. "I saw your car pulling out down the street and wondered if you'd changed your mind." She tried to keep her voice neutral and steady then.

Brass turned from the sink and came to her, drying his hands on the dishtowel. He tossed it almost neatly over the back of another chair, smiling tenderly as he touched her cheek. More than anything he wanted to calm the faint worry he saw on her face.

"No way, baby," he told her, searching her eyes and kissing her. "That was Mickey heading to her 9:00 tee time over at Black Hill."

"Goodness gracious, golf again?" she laughed and felt a little foolish for her lack of faith. Catherine peeled off her jacket, the worry falling away with it, and then she let him take her into his arms, luxuriating in his warmth and soothing strength. "I may have to get back into it one of these years."

"Yeah, me too, from scratch. I think she shot an obscene 78 the other day, it was unreal, Cath. That girl beat my hockey-player ass all over the course, fair and square. The Scottish couple we met on Thursday, the Dicksons, invited her to join them this morning for eighteen more holes. The flight back to Tallahassee is not until tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh, good. I was hoping to see her again before she headed home. How's she doing?"

Brass shrugged. "Better, I think. Yesterday was a laundry and hang-out-take-it-easy day; I let her use my movie rental card. She's still nursing some pretty big hurts care of the ex-boyfriend. It's only been a couple of months since they split up. Mickey said they were together just under two years or so."

Catherine was quiet for a moment, resting her head on his chest as he held her, undemanding in the center of the kitchen. "Well, then we're both lucky you're such a good listener." She looked up at him with a lop-sided half smile. Catherine too, was nursing some pretty big hurts care of an ex-, and then Eddie had been killed about six months ago. "Thanks."

"You're very welcome."

With that, he leaned down to kiss her, lightly tasting her tongue with his. She sighed her approval as his large hands warmed her lower back and settled possessively on her buttocks, pulling her closer and tightly molding her body with his own. She could feel the growing evidence of his desire for her through the thin material of his pajamas. Her body's responses were starting to tingle, too. It was a great feeling.

It had been quite a while since they'd last been together like this: Catherine's grief had made her shut down a bit, emotionally. But, Jim was secure enough to let her work through it in her own time, and in her own way. His offers of comfort were continually open-ended. She had never met someone so patient with her demons before; when he had been the boss of the CSI graveyard shift up until several years ago, she'd thought of him mostly as an annoying ass. Must be the job that did that to a guy.

When they finally parted, Cath a little breathless, she looked up at him again and saw the invitation in his unbelievably blue eyes. "Meet you at the pass, Jim? I need about two minutes to get cleaned up from work," she said. The faint scents of his soap and aftershave (she always loved it when he shaved _before_ bed) were already affecting her. He smelled so good up close like this.

His eyes twinkled at her as one eyebrow snuck upwards. "Naked?" Jim's sexy baritone voice was also affecting her, making her knees feel like water.

"Totally," she assured him, with a tiny catch in her throat. She kissed her fingertip and pressed it to his lips before she headed to the bathroom.

By the time Catherine joined him in his bedroom he had already drawn the room-darkening shades and turned on a dim lamp at the bedside. She wore his soft cotton robe in from the master bath because she loved the smell and touch of it on her bare skin.

Jim waited for her under the covers, stretched out on his side; watching her as she slipped out of his bathrobe and in beside him. Something about the way she turned made her swear mildly under her breath and grunt softly in pain.

"You okay, Catherine?" he asked, immediately concerned.

"My back's been really sore today," she said, settling in and facing him. Eyes half-closed, she groaned again, but this time it came out with a sigh.

He reached over and caressed the slender dip of her waist. "Lifting heavy old CSI cases?"

"No, I try not to do that anymore if I can help it. It's woman stuff. It'll stop in a few days, after things, uh, get going." She stroked his chest, enjoying the texture of the thick, dark hair.

"Ah," he said with understanding and planted a quick kiss on her lips. "Turn over, doll face. You need a 'James F. Brass special'."

She giggled as she rolled over onto her stomach, crushing both arms and one side of her face into the pillow. Jim sat up and reached for the tube of odorless muscle rub cream he kept in the drawer of the nightstand, squeezing a bit of it into his palm. He began rubbing two-handed circles of it onto the small of her back, first pushing back the bedclothes so that she was completely uncovered. Even in the pale lamplight, he was enjoying the view.

Still concentrating on her lower back muscles, he switched to one hand as the medicinal lotion soaked in. He exerted a bit more pressure with his fingertips and heard her moan into the pillow. Jim winced sympathetically and eased up.

"Ooh, sorry. Too much?" He slid over to support himself on one elbow, stretching out full-length beside her.

"Actually, no. It's wonderful, Jim. You can be my chiropractor anytime," she said, lifting her head slightly so the words would not be muffled. Catherine sighed and he felt her body relax even more under his tender attention.

She was literally purring with contentment as he massaged her upper back, then buttocks and the backs of her legs. He leaned in to kiss and taste the skin of her shoulder blade that was nearest. As he rubbed, he switched to careful fingernail scratches and saw gooseflesh rise when he traced up her spine. She was so still and limp that he thought for a brief moment she'd fallen asleep.

She hadn't. In one decisive movement, she turned over onto her back and stretched luxuriously under the warm hand that rested on her abdomen. She reached up to caress the back of his head, trying to pull him closer. Jim resisted a little, a teasing smile on his face, realizing what a turn-on for them both the gentle massage had been.

"Oh, the front too, huh? If you insist, ma'am…" It was then that Brass allowed her to pull him down for another very frank and passionate kiss. His massaging hand left her flat stomach and tickled downwards to find the warm and welcoming wetness between her legs. He had to fight hard to control his own arousal, but she was practically squirming with pleasure under the movements of his fingers, lips and tongue. Jim dipped down briefly to capture an pebbled rosy nipple between his lips. A feline growl escaped her as he did so.

At her insistent pulling and shifting around, he eased himself to his knees and between her legs, entering her crux easily, hands-free. She cried out her desire as his rigid member sank into her. "Oh, God! Jim, please…" Her hands greedily wandered over his muscular shoulders and arms, down his sides to caress his hips.

Brass didn't answer except to move his head down to kiss her throat and neck as she arched beneath him. He moved teasingly, agonizingly slowly within her; the heat from her body's responses was incredible and he wasn't exactly sure how he was able to make love to her like this. Catherine groaned again as she grasped his buttocks with both hands and encouraged him to penetrate her more deeply, the slow pace making her want even him more. Jim held himself completely motionless and smiled down until she opened her eyes. He knew he'd just discovered another way to drive her crazy (in a good way, of course) and he liked it. A lot.

"Jim! Don't ever, _ever_ screw with a woman who's PMS-ing," she whispered hoarsely, and then sniggered when she saw his impish eyebrows go up well towards his hairline, such as it was these days. Even in the near-darkness, Catherine could see his eyes glittering with humor and passion, and she realized what she'd just said. "Uh, let me rephrase that…"

They both laughed out loud, and he kissed her again before he resumed thrusting in earnest, gradually building in speed and depth. "Okay, baby. You're the boss," he told her softly, nibbling gently on an earlobe and breathing in the faint freesia scent of her hair. Catherine knew it had become one of his favorites, so she used that particular shampoo often.

She was already relaxed and receptive after the backrub, so it wasn't long before a pleasant tightness settled powerfully in her pelvis. She gasped and loudly called out his name when the climax finally rippled through her entire body. Her long, dancer's limbs clasped around his torso, and his own breathless finish came shortly after.

He rested on his knees and elbows above her, trying to catch his breath, and she traced tiny, grateful kisses all over his flushed face. After several moments, he gently pulled out and repositioned behind her, spooning her warm soft body with one arm reaching around to caress a full, sensitive breast.

"How's your back now?" he whispered huskily into her ear, tickling a little with his breath.

Catherine squeezed the arm he had wrapped around her. "Never better. Thank you, Doctor." Jim reached down to pull the covers over them, then quickly settled back into his position as the rear "spoon". She sighed, sleepy and satisfied as she clicked off the lamp, and was quiet for a few moments more.

"Jim?"

"M-hm?" He sounded sleepy and content too.

"Did you know that the same muscles that cause pre-menstrual cramps are temporarily relieved by a woman's orgasm?"

He chuckled. "Oh, yeah? I did not know that."

She giggled softly and snuggled further back into his hirsute body. "Yep, better than drugs. I can show you the article if you like."

"Then you really are the boss, Cath. Just let me know when you need another, um, adjustment." They drifted off to sleep, smiling in the darkness.

TBC


	8. BoSox

8

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP.

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

_**Chapter 08/??**_

"_**BoSox"**_

(A Saturday night in mid-May)

The clock radio went off at 5:00 p.m. and soon they were more or less dressed for work and out to the kitchen. The coffee pot was nearly finished with its gurgling task (but Jim had forgotten to set the timer, so it had to be Mickey, whom he'd invited to stay for the remainder of her trip. The guest bedroom wasn't fancy but she seemed to like and appreciate it), and a pair of aluminum foil-wrapped pizza pans waited in a warm oven. There was a note: "Dinner: no kidney beans for you; no onions for me. Love,". She had drawn a caricature of Mickey Mouse as the signature, big ears and all.

"Wow. I thought something smelled yummy out here," Catherine commented, pulling three mugs from the cupboard. "What is it?"

Jim had grabbed a set of oven mitts and was moving the pans to the stovetop. He shrugged. "I have no idea. _Ow_! Still hot, though."

"Mediterranean pizza," said Mickey, wearing rumpled gray sweatpants and a dark blue "Sponge Bob, Square-pants" t-shirt, wandering barefooted into the kitchen with a hand cupped carefully over one eye. "I invented it over the years in grad school." She stopped at the small mirror and widened that eye, trying to reposition her contact lens. That sorted, she came over and kissed Jim on the cheek. "Good morning. Afternoon. Whatever." On her way to the refrigerator, she spontaneously kissed Catherine on the cheek too.

"What's that secret little smile for?" asked Catherine. She reached up and pulled down three dinner plates, one for each of them.

Mickey gave her the very Captain-Brass-like naughty grin over the bottle of water she was sipping. "My guess was right about you two." She chased down two or three tablets of something from her hand.

Jim was surprised. "When was that, Dr. Smarty Pants?" He put several slices of the homemade pizza on each plate.

"The other day in the DNA lab…the nickel tour."

She frowned for just a moment, and then Catherine laughed and shook her head fondly. "Oh, yeah, the tour. Are you ready to eat, Mickey?"

"I will be in a few minutes, thanks. I need to stretch out my back before I do anything else."

"Too much Nevada golf, Tiger?" Jim asked.

"No, not really. Mainly woman stuff," she said, heading into the living room. Jim blushed hard and barely stifled his snickering with the back of the oven mitt he still wore on one hand. Catherine smiled but pointed a very stern finger at him. _You be quiet, mister_ she mouthed.

As they carried trays into the living room, Mickey was lying on the floor, twisted into a seemingly impossible stretch position, and exclaiming at "ESPN Sports center" on the television: "Damn those Yankees! Shoot, the Red Sox lost again, Uncle Jim."

He sighed dramatically and started in on his pizza. "Yeah, I know. 'Rocket Roger' was hot last night, the bastid…" Jim was referring to Roger Clemens, the NY Yankee right-handed pitcher (once a member of the Red Sox team), and pronounced it like he would have back home in Canton. He hit the mute button on the remote control when the program switched to yet another cellular phone commercial.

Mickey giggled from her spot on the area rug in front of the glass cocktail table, continuing to stretch. "It is too friggin' early for the All-Star break choke fest," came her voice from the carpet. "Aaaargh, come on guys."

Catherine went a little wide-eyed and struggled to catch toppings that fell from her first pizza slice and onto the plate. "You two alright?" She sounded mildly concerned.

"I'm fine. How about you, Uncle Jimmy?" A brown-haired, pony-tailed head popped up to look at her over the remotes and magazines.

"Sure, I'm good. It's family tradition to bad-mouth the Sox, Catherine. We're actually licensed for this 'curse-of-the-Bambino' thing," Jim explained. "You should hear my brothers. They're so rabid it gets a little scary; my Dad was too."

The so-called "Curse of the Bambino" is due to "expire" in 2018. One hundred years is a very long time to wait for another World Series victory: the "Bambino" or Babe Ruth was traded by Boston to the Yankees. He wasn't happy about it and pronounced the hex that bears his name. So far, it has been eerily accurate, much to the chagrin of Red Sox players and fans everywhere.

Mickey laughed as she got up slowly, stretching again, and went to the kitchen to fetch her own tray. She came back to the low table in the living room moments later. Brass had changed the TV to the Weather Channel. Big surprise: it would be sunny, warm and dry in Las Vegas and Henderson today.

"I can't believe I'm eating pizza with coffee as a creative breakfast, no less," mused Catherine. "What's in it, Mickey? This is absolutely fantastic."

"Thank you. Lemme see: olive oil, fresh basil, oregano, fennel, artichoke hearts, mushrooms, black olives, green olives, sun-dried tomatoes, tomato sauce, feta cheese, mozzarella cheese, and prosciutto. All baked on a large Boboli-pizza-dough thingy." She sat on the couch eating with both legs crossed under her plate, which made Jim's almost fifty year-old knees ache just watching. "I went to the store on the way home. Oh, the Dicksons said to tell you 'hello'. They fly back to Scotland tomorrow night." She had put a couple of ice cubes in her coffee and stirred it carefully with a fingertip.

Jim nodded, chewed and swallowed. "Nice couple; Alistair nearly wet himself laughing when you started doing his own accent back at him. Keep cooking like this, kid, and you can stay here for as long as you like. You know, you don't have to do the full lab tour on the graveyard shift tonight. It's okay to be _on vacation_ for a few days."

"I know," replied Mickey around a mouthful of food. She grabbed her napkin and swallowed before continuing: "I'll sleep on the plane tomorrow, and I bet I get stuck in Dallas again with a big steak for dinner, compliments of Delta Airlines. No problem."

"Okay, 'nuff said then. What'd you shoot today, anyway?" he asked. Catherine looked interested too.

"Eighty."

"Uh-oh. You _slackah_ you," teased Uncle Jim. Mickey wrinkled her slightly sunburned nose at him, making Catherine laugh at the expression as she got up to carry her empty plate to the kitchen.

"Somebody sounds jealous to me…" Catherine joked, winking at Mickey. "Who's ready for more coffee?"

TBC

A/N: the irony of my current state of "slackerness" is not lost on me as the Boston Red Sox have won the Baseball World Series not once, but twice (in 2004 and in 2007) since I started this fic! Curse, schmurse.

Thank you to Stephanie for encouraging me to continue.


	9. Medicinal Chocolate

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP.

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

_**Chapter 09/??**_

"_**Medicinal Chocolate"**_

(A Sunday morning in mid-May)

"Oh, I'm gonna kill that guy!" Sara exclaimed fiercely as she came rushing into the CSI break room. "I hate him, I hate him, and I hate him."

Nick, Warrick and Mickey were seated at the table sharing the Sunday paper's crossword puzzle. They had made a photocopy of it so Grissom could have the original. Mickey was snacking from a half-full bag of Nestlé's semi-sweet chocolate chips and looking over Nick's shoulder.

"Who's the 419 gonna be this time, Sara?" Warrick asked, smiling and using the LVMPD code for "dead body". He had a good idea who and winked mischievously at Nick.

"That damn Hodges in Trace." She started rummaging through cabinets and drawers, obviously searching for something, and not finding it. "Little brown-nosing shit…I swear to God…" she muttered.

"N-e-n-e," said Mickey to Nick, who had the pencil at the time. "_Hawaiian goose_, trust me."

"How in the hell do you know that?" he said with a grin as he wrote it in. "You do Hie-wayan zoology too?" Nick deliberately thickened his East-Texas drawl and Warrick had to roll his eyes in mock disgust. The flirting energy was getting pretty dense in the break room.

Mickey laughed and mimicked him as accurately as she could. "Lots of crossword puzzles, Bubba. I had plenty of time waiting for DNA gels to run in the lab when I was in graduate school; some of my friends called it _gradual_ school since it took so freakin' long to finish!"

Sara stopped in her search and asked: "Hey Mickey, do you keep any Midol or anything like that with you?"

Mickey held up a small bottle from her lab coat pocket and shook it without a word, handing it to her immediately. Sidle gave her a grateful smile, opening it. She also read the label, with a raised eyebrow of interest: 800 mg ibuprofen. "Wow, this is the good stuff too."

"Only thing that'll cut mine," Mickey told her. It was then that Sara noticed the package of semi-sweet chocolate morsels (meant for baking Tollhouse chocolate chip cookies, but this bag wouldn't survive the drive home at the end of the shift) and the carton of milk on the table. By now, both Stokes and Brown were becoming distinctly uncomfortable at the two women's conversation topic.

Sara sighed and sat at the table, swallowing down two tablets with water, and then she took a few chocolates from the proffered bag. "Thanks, I'm your friend forever. And I can't wait for menopause…"

Warrick checked his watch suddenly and tapped Nick on the arm. "Hey, look at the time, Dog. Gotta get back to that evidence thing we were working on."

"Oh, yeah, right; that other thing we were working on," said Nick, rising from the table and leaving the crossword copy for Sara and Mickey. "We'll let you ladies get back to your, um, stuff…" With that, he quickly followed Warrick out of the break room.

"Cowards! Both of you," Sara called out after them, laughing merrily. Mickey was laughing too and picked up the crossword puzzle Nick had so hurriedly left behind.

Out in the hallway, Nick and Warrick nearly ran into Grissom, Willows and Brass who were just about to enter the break room. Nick held up a hand to stop Gil.

"I wouldn't go in there, if I were ya'll. Sara and Mickey are popping Midols with chocolate chip chasers," he told them. "It could be dangerous."

"And Sara is planning to kill David H. I think she really means it this time, Griss," Warrick chimed in, continuing his role in the tag-team routine. Grissom smirked and jerked a thumb over his shoulder; back toward the evidence lay out rooms.

"Can we get that analysis finished by the end of the shift please? Sara and Mickey's break habits are not exactly germane to our cases, are they?" He tried to glare at them sternly, and was failing miserably, especially with Brass snickering and Catherine barging her way into the doorway. Gil moved to follow her, but Jim bailed.

"You're on your own, Cousin," he said, high-tailing it to the relative safety of his office.

"Okay, how about a fruit that begins with 'T'?" they heard Mickey asking. Gil and Catherine helped themselves to coffee and joined the young women at the table.

Sara thought a moment. "Tangerine. Tangelo. How many letters?"

"Six," was the response. "Yeah, help yourself, Catherine," replied Mickey to Willows' unspoken question regarding the bag of chocolate chips on the table.

"How about _tomato_?" Grissom suggested.

Mickey nodded and wrote it in. "Perfect. You are the man, Dr. Gil."

Catherine scoffed. "Tomatoes aren't fruit, are they?" She looked skeptical, but winked out of Mickey's and Sara's view, teasing.

Grissom sipped at his coffee before answering. "Any ripened flower or ovary is a fruit: eggplant, cucumber, tomatoes, and green beans. Not just apples and oranges."

There was a poignant moment of silence before all three of the women spluttered and started laughing. Gil chuckled quietly and reddened suddenly with embarrassment. This much female solidarity was getting to him, but he bore the teasing like a good sport. "I'll see you ladies later. Enjoy your crossword."

"Okay, bye, Grissom," Catherine called as he went out the door and closed it carefully behind him. He could still hear their amusement as he made his way carrying coffee down the hall to Jim's office, shaking his head at himself.

-/-/-/-/-/-

Later, at about 5:00 a.m., Mickey was working alone in the DNA lab. Greg had accompanied Nick and Warrick on a call, so she was really just babysitting the instruments as they ran their automated programs. Grissom had granted permission for Sanders to occasionally work in the field, and a Sunday morning seemed slow-paced enough for him to do so.

Mickey was sitting at a bench with her laptop computer in front of her, trying to catch up on her seminar notes from the ASM conference she'd attended the previous week, and trying not to yawn too much. Greg had shown her his private stash of music CDs in the cabinet and offered her the use of his player while he was away. She was beginning to seriously consider a nap on the couch in Uncle Jim's office when two very big, burly gentlemen in suits came into the lab area. Inwardly, she commented on their harsh haircuts brusque body language. Outwardly, she was trying not to look too awed or intimidated. They were both huge, and one of them was extremely annoyed about something.

"I don't give a good goddamn what he says, Ray. The D.A. is about to crawl up my ass and…" one of them was saying with a great deal of irritation. He stopped suddenly when he saw Mickey, taking in her "visitor" tag and light blue lab coat of the Forensics/I.D. unit. "Sorry, ma'am." He winced as his face and ears reddened up into his auburn crew cut; old manners hammered into him by his no-nonsense grandmother coming to the forefront.

"Good morning, Sheriff," said Mickey (and she couldn't help drawling on the last word, just like in the cowboy-western movies), reading his badge and I.D. She hopped off the rolling high chair and held out her hand. "I'm Dr. Mickey Kaye, visiting from Tallahassee this week. Well, attending a conference and visiting family." Mickey wasn't sure why she said it that way, but she wondered what this sheriff and detective (noting the other man's badge on his coat) were like. Jim Brass hadn't introduced her to any cops yet, just the science types.

Mobley chuckled as he shook her hand. "A real-live Lady Seminole, huh? That Coach Bobby and his boys did a number on my Lobos a few years back," he asked, referring to the college team mascot from that particular Florida city (his team was the NMSU Lobos). "Brian Mobley. This is Sergeant Ray O'Riley. You seen Sanders around?"

"No, sir. He's out in the field with Stokes and Brown. Anything I can help with?" She had to look up slightly to talk to both of them.

The sheriff looked over at O'Riley, who shrugged and gave a short laugh. "I'm not the one with the D.A. and hemorrhoid problem, Brian." Mickey was trying to place his accent and guessed back East someplace. The sheriff was obviously a Texan; his was an easy one.

Mobley heaved a sigh. "It's this DNA data. Some of the lawyers involved are hauling in their own experts and our District Attorney is having a conniption fit. How about a basic info piece Dr. Kaye, enough to get him off my tail?"

She grinned and saved the spreadsheet file she had been working on, and then closed her lap top cover, seating it with a soft click. "No problem, I live for this stuff back home. Is over here okay?" Mickey indicated the large white marker board on the wall across the lab.

Forty minutes or so later, Mickey was leaning comfortably against the board, having covered it with illustrations and notes about DNA, etc. Mobley and O'Riley had pulled lab chairs over and were seated with her at the board, looking much more relaxed than when they had first come in.

"So what is it that you do back in sunny old Florida, Doc?" O'Riley was asking. "Obviously teaching."

Mickey put the caps back on the erasable markers, making sure the correct colors went with the markers (it was a pet peeve that she was well-known for at the college: white board markers with the wrong color caps just plain ticked her off sometimes).

"Yes, I teach part-time at the college; mainly biology with some chemistry thrown in. I had spent so much time in Tallahassee that I looked into staying after I finished up my degree. Some friends and I also started an environmental consulting lab, so it leaves plenty of time for fun stuff like fishing and golf, too."

Sheriff Mobley had been utterly charmed by Mickey (a difficult thing to do given his usually uptight personality, but she had cheated a little by letting her usual Southern accent out a bit during their conversation). "NMSU never had Profs in Las Cruces that looked like you, young lady, and I honestly hated biology class with all the damn smelly dead frogs. Thank you for your help on this."

Mickey blushed slightly. "You are very welcome. I hope it ends up being useful."

"Should be just fine. Hey, do you have a résumé with you? Grissom mentioned a while back about a bacterial DNA database we should get into. Pro…something?"

"Prokaryotic. Sure I do. One thing about conferences is that you always take your C.V. 'cause you never know who you'll run into."

Mobley nodded, smiling. "We're the number two crime lab in the country, and I'd like to get us to top dog."

She laughed with the pair of them. "Who's number one?"

O'Riley made a face. "L.A." Mickey nodded, understanding immediately. She was a fellow East-coaster after all.

Just then, Grissom, Sanders and Brass entered the lab. Greg Sanders widened his eyes when he saw the marker board, taking in the amount of information on it, particularly intrigued by the multi-colored illustrations of DNA double helices. He busied himself with checking the instruments, not sure what he should say around nearly the entire department senior staff in his lab, especially Sheriff Mobley, who rarely came into the technician areas. Brass and Grissom exchanged a wordless look of surprise at the sight of Mickey in friendly conversation with the sheriff and the sergeant.

Mobley held out his hand to Mickey. "Dr. Kaye…thanks again. How about that paperwork on my desk by Tuesday morning? We can crunch some numbers later, you and I."

"Sure thing, Sheriff. And thank you for the opportunity," she replied, noticing that Uncle Jim had arrived.

"Marcie will kill me if I miss Sunday school again. Gil, I don't know where you found Dr. Kaye, but we need to figure out how to keep her in Vegas," Mobley said to the CSI supervisor, much to his surprise. "Jim, Ray, tomorrow at 6 a.m. should work."

Brass barely had a chance to acknowledge him as he left, so he turned to Mickey with a questioning look on his face. "So, give. Did we miss something, Mouse?"

"Oh, hi Uncle Jimmy. If it's alright with Dr. Grissom, we're thinking of getting a summer project started," she told him. "Only a few crime labs in the U.S. are set up for bacterial DNA. Weird, huh?"

Grissom looked over at Sanders, and winked, chuckling quietly at the straightforward, guileless way she spoke. "I think you're going to have a good summer this year, Greg. Ray, have you met Captain Brass' niece from Florida yet?"

O'Riley laughed heartily, patting her shoulder as he made his way to the door. "Apparently I just did, and it's _still_ a pleasure, Doc. I'll get started on that Evans report, Captain."

Brass smiled and shook his head at her; Mickey was looking rather pleased with herself and grinned back at him and Grissom, as if this was something she did every weekend.

"So, um…Uncle Jimmy, yesterday you said I could stay in your guest room as long as I wanted. I'll cook at the house if you like, and I think I just found a great way to pay for it!"

TBC


	10. 52pickup

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP (oh, and somewhat AU).

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

_**Chapter 10/??**_

"_**52-pickup"**_

During the first week in the CSI lab, getting into the end of May, Mickey asked for and got permission to work in the pathology area until the bacterial cultures and other prokaryotic DNA supplies arrived. Apparently that part of the tour had been the next-most interesting, and rather than wait around in DNA, why not do something else? Captain Brass had cringed inwardly at her enthusiasm about the autopsy labs, but kept his comments to himself.

She also very quickly found the Police department's pool, learning that it was indeed open 24-hours, with video surveillance instead of lifeguards on duty. Dinner break or end-of-shift swims became part of her daily routine. It was on such a morning at the end of the first week that Mickey made her way to the CSI break room. They were having their weekly "pow-wow" and case progress reports over breakfast take-out and had invited her to participate.

Shoes squeaking on the tiled floor, Mickey visibly sighed with relief when she saw that they hadn't started yet. "Oh, good. I thought I was late." She had changed into her street clothes after the swim, and her hair was still damp. Normally, Mickey wore full surgical scrubs in the autopsy rooms like Dr. Robbins and David Phillips did.

Warrick shook his head, smiling over a coffee. "Nah. Griss just called and he's running late getting back from the field." He pointed back over his shoulder. "Your box has your name on it, oh Chlorinated One." She smirked, pointing a finger at him: it also hadn't taken long for the rest of the crew to start teasing her about the inevitable "eau de autopsy room" in Dr. Robbins' areas downstairs…Sara recommended lemon-scented soaps and shampoos as a precautionary measure.

Everyone else was there, chatting over their breakfasts, with a short stack of case folders in front of each of them. Nick and Catherine had their heads together, sharing the newspaper while Warrick, Sara and Brass talked quietly while they waited for Grissom. Mickey grabbed her Styrofoam take-out box and a bottled V-8 juice before sitting between Sara and Jim on the end.

"I think I owe somebody money," she said to the group in general, her stomach growling in response to the now-open box lid.

Jim shook his head, swallowing a forkful of scrambled eggs. "I got you on this one. How was the pool?"

She grinned, and it emphasized the swim-goggle marks under her eyes. "Excellent. Thanks for breakfast, Uncle Jimmy." Mickey set the toasted bagel aside, clearing a path to the ham and eggs. One benefit of swimming for exercise was that it made her hungry afterwards; any weight gain would be mostly muscle mass.

"No problem, Mouse. How far today?"

Shrugging, Mickey told him: "Easy day, two thousand."

Nick actually looked up from the paper at that. "Seriously? Two thousand laps, damn."

"Yards, meters; I'm not sure which one for this pool yet."

Stokes had to laugh at himself over that misunderstanding. "More than a mile? I sure as hell wouldn't call that an easy day…" he said under his breath.

Catherine folded over a page and leaned across the table to look over at Brass. "Hey Jim, Mickey, your Red Sox are three and a half games up in the AL East," she said.

"The Bo-Sox? I always thought you were from Jersey," Warrick commented.

"Not originally. Well, I did go to Seton Hall for college and then stayed in Newark on the P.D.," he replied, sounding a little wistful (but you had to know the man to even hear it in his voice). "But I grew up not too far outside of Bean-town."

"Boston's a great city," murmured Sara, looking up briefly from her article. Mickey looked over at her, questioning. "Oh, Harvard for my undergrad." Sara seemed pleased to learn this about the detective and his niece; it was a non-work conversation topic and something that they shared in common.

"Cool place to live," agreed Mickey. "I was born in the same town as Uncle Jim, Canton, but we moved when I was very little. Navy stuff." She shrugged, adding: "That's how we ended up in Florida."

"Man, Seton Hall always has some great round-ball teams," said Warrick, almost wistfully. In his gambling days, NCAA men's basketball was like a gold mine. "March madness…"

Jim chuckled. "Yeah, but they were all out of roster spots for slow and chunky 5'9" guys. Hockey was my thing back in those days."

Eyes wide, Nick made a sound of disbelief. "No kidding? Scared of you, Brass," he teased.

Jim got up to throw away his empty container, and get a refill on coffee. "Oh, absolutely; power and grace, even before the 'Great One' hit the NHL. Plus I'm over 6'2" in skates, Nicky." He joined in the general laughter, and just then, Gil arrived, traveling lightly for once with just a yellow legal-sized note pad.

"Sorry I'm late, guys. Give me a second here to get situated," he said, gathering his own take-out box and pouring a fresh cup from the coffee pot.

"I'm telling you, it'll be the Rangers and the Braves in the World Series this year," Nick was continuing after reading the NL box scores. "A-rod is too hot."

"No way, Cowboy," Mickey had to speak up on that one. "The ALCS will be New York-Boston; NLCS will be Florida-Chicago. Atlanta is done for a few years while they rebuild, and Texas doesn't have the pitching yet."

"Get out of town," Nick scoffed. "Alex Rodriguez is MVP material, even if Boston has the highest team batting average these days, consistently."

"Seriously, Nicholas. Twenty bucks says those are the division match-ups for the end of the 2003 season. He may win the league MVP, but he won't see the big dance, not with the Rangers at least."

"You're on. What about the World Series?" He reached across the table to playfully slap fingertips, "shaking" on the wager.

Mickey, Brass and Gil all sighed loudly and dramatically. "I'd surely like to see a Cubs-Red Sox World Series, but that's one too many curses to get by," she said. "Damn those Yankees." The rest of the crew laughed quietly at the superstitious revelation by the visitor.

Grissom chuckled as he started on his own breakfast. "Even I would be forced to take the week off to head back east to see that one," he said ruefully. "The Chicago Cubs haven't been in a World Series in my lifetime. Oh well. It's still a dream, and it's a long season still to come, so hope springs eternal. Sara, how's your 419 at the Tangiers?"

Sara moved aside her article and opened up the top folder. "The vic was identified as a Mr. Malcolm Moldovsky, of Galveston, Texas, aged 81. Dr. Robbins is going with natural causes based on his post and toxicology findings."

"I bet the old cowboy won big at the tables and stroked out from excitement," Nick commented. "Poor guy couldn't get a break back home."

"Oh come on, Nicky, that's a _terrible_ cowboy name," Catherine added, tossing the newspaper over to the counter behind her. There were chuckles around the table at Stokes' expense.

"No, actually, Mr. Moldovsky immigrated to Texas from Poland in 1942," Sara continued. "And, the cause of death was Viagra-induced sexual congress followed by a massive myocardial infarction; silendafil citrate doesn't mix well with anti-hypertensive drugs." Unconsciously, Grissom, Stokes, Brass and Brown all flinched in sympathy.

Mickey leaned over to look at the photograph in Sara's case file. "Interesting, I did the canoe-cut on this one. The lung cancer this guy had was unbelievably rampant so at least he died happy. Would have killed him by Christmas if not sooner." Brass and Willows both looked over at her curiously, and a little impressed by the way she contributed (and more than a little stunned that she was still eating _while_ looking at the autopsy photo).

"Any foul play?" Gil asked, quietly noting Mickey's comments and mannerisms; he looked forward to meeting with Al Robbins for a progress update on Dr. Kaye.

Sara gave a shake of her head. "None. His wife of sixty-one years is coming up totally clean. She'll inherit modestly, but there's nothing weird or out of line coming up at all. They had no children, no other next of kin; both of them came over during the war and made good here. Just a few animal rescue and kids' cancer charities, things like that."

"Who's your detective?" continued the supervisor.

"O'Riley. Doc Robbins is all set to sign off and release the body to the widow so she can take him home," said Sara.

"Okay. Thank you," he said, making a note on his yellow paper. "Nick, what about you?"

And so it went. Each investigator reported on his or her case progress, with Detective Brass sometimes chiming in from the police end, and Mickey getting a quick lesson in LVMPD codes. Most of them were yawning widely by the time the dayshift started filing in, putting food into the community refrigerators and heading to their laboratories.

Shortly after 7:30 a.m., Brass and Mickey headed home, with a quick stop at a movie rental store so she could find "Happy Gilmore" for her uncle. She wanted him to see one interpretation of a hockey player on the golf course. It would take a little longer to convince him that DVD technology was better than VHS (and gawd-awful Beta), but she had all summer to work on that.

-/-/-/-/-/-

A few weeks later, on what started out as a perfectly ordinary shift, Mickey and David Phillips, one of Dr. Robbins' best pathology assistants arrived at the scene at about 2:30 a.m. Uniformed officers were busy taping off the area and keeping onlookers back several hundred feet. Given the hour, there weren't many, but then again, this was Las Vegas, a city that never sleeps. It was a narrow side street just off Las Vegas Boulevard, known locally as "the Strip". What appeared to be a man's body lay crumpled in a heap on the pavement. A puddle of blood and other aromatic fluids had pooled beneath him.

"Did you hit any of the casinos during the ASM? They usually do some good deals out here for the conference attendees," he commented, continuing their conversation from the drive over as they wheeled a gurney to the perimeter of the yellow-taped area. Both wore dark blue ball caps and lined windbreakers with "Coroner" emblazoned on the back in fluorescent yellow letters. A rookie-uniformed officer greeted them politely in response to David's M.E. card, and he raised the tape for them to pass under it.

"Thank you, sir. Ma'am," he said with a nod and grim look. The young black man tilted his head slightly to one side, listening carefully to the police radio receiver he had attached to his shoulder harness.

Mickey was carrying the aluminum medical examiner's case and had to catch up slightly to answer the earlier question. "Now that you mention it, they did have some deals going on. I wasn't really interested. Uncle Jim offered to call some of his pals in the biz too, like tour guides if I wanted. I don't even like bingo at church," she said and he grinned.

"Too much smoke," said David. "Makes my allergies kick up like crazy; smoke and cats if I'm really unlucky. Here you go." He handed her a pair of latex gloves, and put a pair on himself. Phillips then knelt and removed his camera from its case. Moments later, he had the labeled scale grid placed and started snapping photos for Dr. Robbins' evidence. At his request, Mickey held the clipboard ready to take any notes for him.

"What a mess," Mickey commented, looking around, noticing the details he was photographing. The corpse had landed face up, which was unusual in a case like this, and it looked like the man had voided his bladder and bowels upon impact. She squatted down on her heels, keeping well out of the way and making sure not to touch anything, but close enough to hear if David needed anything handed over.

He was well versed in the art of talking while he worked, having practiced for years with the medical examiners in the department. "Yeah, it usually is when they do a 'number three' like this guy. Vegas is full of tall buildings, so lots of jumping targets of opportunity. Lots of motive as well, if they lose too much at the tables. Kinda sad. Mickey, would you look in that case for the thermometer? It's a big silver one."

She rummaged around for a few seconds and pulled out what looked like a meat thermometer. "This?" In spite of the surroundings, she gave a short laugh. "My mom has one of these."

David chuckled too. "So does mine, thanks. The digital readout is large and it photographs well. Doctor Robbins loves to shop the catalogs for cool lab stuff." He carefully moved aside clothing and slipped the device into the corpse's right abdomen to check the liver temperature. "Okay, the time is now 0238 and our DB temperature is 96.5." Mickey wrote this down for his notes on the case.

They heard new sirens arriving, adding to the flashing light-environment at the crime scene. Soon, Sara Sidle and Catherine Willows had arrived and been admitted under the tape as well. Both smiled at Mickey in welcome "to the field". David returned their greetings shyly.

"Hi David," said Willows as they walked over. "Hi Mickey. You guys just pronounce?"

"Yes, ma'am. 0238, officially," David told her, beginning to perspire a bit in Sara's presence. He'd had a crush on her for at least two years. "C.O.D. and manner of death as yet undetermined, of course. Apart from a bad landing."

"It probably wasn't the takeoff, was it? Hi Mickey, first 419 pickup?" Sara asked, setting to work around the body with her own camera. All four were now gloved and bundled against the chilly Las Vegas night in their lightweight jackets.

"Yes, Dr. Robbins said it was pretty slow for now," she replied. "And I did want to see what went on out in the field at least once while I'm here."

Catherine laughed as she inspected the concrete around the body, shining her flashlight but not yet touching the scene. "You sound just like Greg Sanders. Sara: jumped, pushed or fell? Griss might want us to bring Norman in on this one." Sara only smiled and shook her head, knowing Grissom's predilection for hands-on experimentation over computer simulations. "Norman" was the nickname for full-sized dummies that could be used to re-enact some crime scenes. He could be tossed from buildings, bridges, you name it, all in the name of science, and he never complained. Norman could be trusted to take one for the team.

Sidle moved to one side and snapped photos from another angle. Mickey had handed over the clipboard so that David could finish the official paperwork before Catherine released the body to his custody, and he readied the body bag on the gurney. "Not sure yet. His shoes don't gibe with the rest of his clothes, though." She pointed at the dead man's almost perfectly clean black shoes.

"Military or new cop maybe?" offered Mickey. "But not Navy. My Dad would've had a hissy fit with this guy."

"Yeah, I'll go with newish corframs." The shiny black shoes with rubber soles were commonly issued in the military: they required very little polishing, and were preferred for that reason. "Good call for a microbiologist."

Mickey smirked. "And don't forget _Navy brat_. Only shoes I clean are my golf spikes." She continued to move the scale as Sara indicated. Behind them, Detective Brass had arrived to consult with Catherine Willows, the senior on-scene CSI.

"How you doing, Cath? No wallet, no I.D., no eyeballs so far on this one," he told her briskly, hands stuffed deep into his overcoat pockets. "Passing patrol car found our stiff." Jim's eyes widened when he recognized his niece under the baseball cap. She had just stood up to stretch out a knee that had stiffened. "_What the hell_?! How about a quick word over here, Michelle?" He jerked his head towards a patrol car just beyond the tape's perimeter, its lights still flashing their blue and red.

Mickey really didn't have time to reply as she was not so gently steered outside of the yellow tape. It was his use of her given name that brought up her first reaction: "What's wrong, Uncle Jimmy?" She pulled off her gloves as she'd been instructed to do if she left the crime scene for any reason. There would be fresh gloves in the field kits to replace them as needed.

His eyebrows nearly disappeared into his receding hairline. "What's _wrong_?" Jim echoed hoarsely. "This is a really _bad_ idea, Mick. I mean touring the forensics labs is one thing…"

"Come on, it's a routine pickup. Dr. Robbins and David both said so," she said calmly. She watched as he rubbed the stubble on his chin, trying to stay calm himself. For some reason, it was a gesture that reminded her of her own father back home in Florida. "All I did was ride along in the van."

"In the _middle_ of the night, in a _bad_ neighborhood. It's a crime scene, for Christ's sake."

Mickey bristled immediately at that, and couldn't help letting her temper fly a bit. "It's not like I'm out here by myself! _Shit_, I know it's a crime scene, give me some credit. I am staying out of the way, letting the CSIs do their thing. I'm also staying out of the way of the cops, right?"

"You really shouldn't be out here seeing this, Mickey," he said lamely. It was all he could think of as he looked over at Catherine, Sara and David concentrating on their work. Mickey followed his gaze, beginning to understand.

Willows, Sidle and Phillips had watched for several moments at the two of them with their heads close together by the patrol car, a bit shocked by the Captain's sudden negative reaction at seeing Mickey there, working with them. His tone had been angry but Catherine realized she also heard almost parental concern. She tapped both Sara and David to get their attention, and indicated that they should continue processing the scene for now. Explanations could wait.

Mickey took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, quietly, letting her tense hands and arms relax. She knew him well enough to comprehend that he wasn't angry with her, but rather surprised at the situation. He didn't like too many surprises, especially as a life-long cop.

"Uncle Jimmy, I'm fine," she said in a soft but firm voice. "Yeah, it's totally disgusting stuff, but do you know how many autopsies I've already been in on, assisting? And this is only my third week. Dr. Robbins is a great teacher downstairs, he really is."

In spite of himself, Brass grimaced at her mention of the autopsy room, which by now she knew he avoided whenever it was humanly possible, and smiled. "I haven't touched anything, honest," she continued earnestly. "Ask David, Catherine or Sara; they'll tell you. The bug DNA stuff is supposed to be in bids or on order back at the lab, so don't worry. Some of it should get here by the end of the month, and I'll be tucked up safe and sound _indoors_ at the P.D., chained to a lab bench in the shiny glass habi-trail."

He sighed. "Okay, but be careful please, Jesus. I'm putting a cop or two on you…uh uh, don't argue with me, young lady. Homicide detectives are in charge of the entire crime scene until the body gets back to the morgue, _capisce_? That means me." Jim pointed a finger sternly to emphasize his words, but his eyes were amused now that he'd blown off his worry. "Remember, the handsome Captain guy you ride in with sometimes?"

"Yes, sir, Captain Brass," Mickey replied, trying not to grin as her gaze flicked down to his badge. "I will be extra careful and will be sure to listen to the detective."

"Good, get back to work, Dr. Kaye," he told her with a wink. "Sergeant!" He called over to one of the uniformed officers he recognized. "Bring your partner."

As Mickey made her way back under the yellow tape boundary, Jim strode over to meet the pair of officers halfway. He held out his hand to the older man. "Howard, good to see you."

Officer Ferguson shook hands with the Captain, resting his left thumb in his gun belt's buckle out of habit. "Jim, you doing okay?" The veterans had known each other for at least ten years, and shared many common experiences. Sergeant Howard Ferguson still preferred fieldwork to desk assignments any day.

"Yeah, fine thanks. I have a special duty for you and Officer…"

The rookie spoke up, surprised to be addressed directly by the Detective Captain. "Shepherd. Lloyd Shepherd, sir." He looked so new that Brass and Ferguson both could not even remember when they were that young.

"Okay, son. For you and Officer Shepherd here," he went on. "I want an armed baby-sitter on both of the coroners on this one. You are to remain within six feet of Dr. Kaye and Mr. Phillips over there, understood?"

Ferguson glanced over at the science-types, busily processing the crime scene and the body, which was now being loaded gently into the body bag. It took three of them to carefully move the dead weight. "You got it, Captain." He reached over and patted the rookie's arm.

Both men noticed that Shepherd had not moved. If he had been a lighter skinned black man, they would have seen him blanching. "What is it, Shepherd?" asked Brass.

"Sir, I'll do my best. But…" he stammered, looking over at the body bag and swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down rapidly. "Do…do you want us to accompany the coroners all the way into the morgue?"

Ferguson chuckled, and headed under the tape, holding it up for Brass and the young cop to come through. "Not necessary," said Jim. "You get 'em safely back to the P.D., and that'll do." Shepherd heaved a sigh of relief, and then recovered his look of grim attention as he moved toward the gurney that was now being loaded with its limp burden.

"Yes, sir. You got it, Captain," he assured Brass with an enthusiasm he was just starting to feel. Jim and Ferguson shared an amused look out behind the young man's back, each one knowing exactly what his apprehensions had been. Both were sure that Lloyd Shepherd had the makings of a fine police officer, even with his moderate squeamishness. They easily remembered their first mandatory autopsy experience from their respective academy days; it had not been pleasant.

-/-/-/-/-/-

Nearly an hour-and a half later, Gil Grissom made his way downstairs to the maze of pathology labs, carrying his usual clipboard and short stack of manila folders. He pushed his way through the double doors and had no trouble finding the M.E. on duty.

"Come on in, Gil. I was just firing up the macchiato machine. You interested?" offered Dr. Al Robbins. He was taking a break while the college-student assistant cleaned the autopsy area. With two prosthetic lower legs, he needed to sit frequently. He wasn't all that fast anymore, but he managed to get around so well that most people didn't even realize that he was a double amputee; a result of a fiery car accident at age 30. Most figured that the ever-present support crutch was for his back or something else.

Gil nodded. "Yes indeed, thanks." He took the chair next to Al's at the lab bench, and tucked his reading glasses into his shirt collar.

Robbins eyed his colleague speculatively before he spoke, and closed the notebook he was about to record data and observations in, giving him full attention. "So what can I help with? We've not got anything cooking for a couple of hours, and you don't visit without a reason, even with the promise of a freshly-ground coffee."

Grissom sighed tiredly and smiled. "You've got me pegged, Albert. I heard there was some excitement earlier with our jumper pickup downtown."

"Really? How so?" asked Robbins. "I haven't even cut him open yet with two customers ahead of Mr. Doe for my table." He propped up one leg in an open bottom drawer, giving a quiet sigh of relief.

"Brass told me Mickey went out on the call. She's not a CSI, or even a Nevada resident for that matter," he began. Grissom stopped almost guiltily when Mickey passed by in the hallway, carrying samples. She nodded and smiled to him through the windows, but kept on going. "Officially, Dr. Kaye is a visiting scientist with us."

The coffee machine hissed and spluttered, and its contents began to smell delicious. It was a strange combination of aromas in the room: cleaning solutions, coffee and other assorted laboratory odors. "All true, and yes, she did. David got the call, I offered and Dr. Kaye had previously expressed an interest in seeing what went on prior to any DB's arrival here." He waved distractedly at the autopsy room in general. "Seemed like a good opportunity for us so I didn't see a problem." He poured two short macchiatos and handed one to Grissom, black.

"Thank you. And on the street, Jim Brass assigned two uniforms as a special armed escort for David and Mickey until they got back here with our John Doe. He was in my office a few minutes ago, and was not a happy camper."

"Why didn't he come see me? It was my doing, not yours." A sardonic look from Gil gave him that answer: Brass did not _voluntarily_ visit the pathology lab area. "Never mind." Robbins gave a quiet chuckle as another possible reason came to him.

"Al, I'm just trying to figure out what he was so worked up about. You know how he gets…"

Robbins shook his head, somewhat amused at Grissom's confusion. "You don't have kids. Brass does, I do. Gil, it was 2:30 in the morning, in Las Vegas, just off the Strip, with a D.B. pancake on the sidewalk. Phillips is never armed, you know that, none of the coroners are." A light bulb of comprehension came on for Grissom, finally. "Jim was just being protective of his niece, grown woman or not. Hell, no doubt that I probably would have done the same thing." Al Robbins had three grown daughters himself, all between 20 and 26 years old.

"It does make sense." He sipped at the coffee, enjoying the subtle chocolate flavors.

"Trust me," said Robbins, tasting from his own mug. "Let _her_ deal with it, outside of the office. That should be one helluva time if they both get their Irish up and I wouldn't want to see it." He paused contemplatively. "OK on second thought, maybe I would, but just as a non-participant spectator and from a very, very safe distance on the sidelines. Anyway, was there any kind of procedural violation? Was any evidence compromised in any way? David communicated to me that it was a routine pick up. We just sent the ten-card upstairs to FP; I think Jacqui has it running."

"None that I can see. Dr. Kaye was invited by Sheriff Mobley himself to stay on as a visiting scientist for the summer and I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it happen with my own eyes; Brian never knew what hit him when she turned on the charm. He practically blank-checked the prokaryotic DNA project; we're waiting on Purchasing to come through with the bids."

"Good, so don't worry about it," Al told him reasonably.

Grissom laughed and put up one hand in surrender. "Alright, alright. How is our visiting scientist then?"

Robbins gave a low whistle. "Outstanding. She and I are going to publish a few things by the end of summer, I think, with a well-trained interest in pathology, microbiology, and a cast-iron stomach. Mickey should have done the M.D. as well, but…" he shrugged. "Damn sharp young lady." Al Robbins' advanced degrees were in the M.D./Ph.D. program from Johns Hopkins University and his expertise had been in high demand all around the country before he and his family had settled in Las Vegas.

"Yeah, I know, pre-med was ditched for a double major followed by grad school. She told me when we first met in Brass' office last month. Any chinks in the shining armor?"

Robbins pondered a moment. "Moderate T.M.J., sleep-induced bruxism, mild myopia requiring corrective lenses…"

Grissom stopped him, not quite laughing. "Anything pertinent to the unit?" But he was thinking with amusement: _what do you guys sit around and talk about down here?_

"Well, I heard through the grapevine that she has a bit of a temper and might swear like a sailor if provoked enough. Not surprising if she's related to our Captain Brass, really, and her father's a retired Navy senior chief. Oh, Mom or Dad's brother?"

"Mom's, I think; yes, Jim's older sister is Mickey's mother. Why?"

"Just wondering. Let's see, more flaws…I know one, her coffee is _absolutely_ terrible, terrible stuff. Don't ever let her near the machine; Dr. Mickey drinks instant." He gave a shudder of mock disgust. Instant coffee was highly blasphemous to Dr. Al Robbins. He and Greg Sanders were well known as the department's coffee gourmands.

Gil did laugh this time. "_That_ is serious. So, you're satisfied with her job performance?"

"Absolutely, yes. Good God, I finally get a charming and good-looking female assistant down here and you upstairs greedy Gusses want to steal her away to DNA. I may never speak to you again," said Robbins, but he was smiling warmly. He caught a scandalized look from Grissom. "No. No, don't you dare give me that dirty-old-man crap. She's going out with Dawson from ballistics." His tone indicated that he approved, a carryover from his close relationship to his own children.

"Bobby D. and Mickey? How do you know all this?"

"Gil, I have three daughters, and a wife of thirty years," replied Robbins patiently. "I listen sympathetically even if I don't understand what on Earth they're talking about sometimes, _especially_ if one of the girls has a new boyfriend. It's an art dealing with smart women and making sure they're happy. Poor David moped for hours when he found out. Some guys have all the luck."

"OK, then I trust your judgment on this," said Gil, standing to leave, and mentally filing away the rare "gossip" from the night shift Chief Medical Examiner. "Thanks, Al."

Robbins stopped him short and gently moved to take the mug from his hands. "Uh uh. You know the rules about my secret stash down here. Sanders might get sticky fingers again."

"Ah, sorry about that." He finished the coffee under watchful eyes, and then returned the empty mug, winking conspiratorially. "I forgot."

TBC

A/N: for sheer entertainment value, why not check out www(dot)imdb(dot)com and search for Paul Guilfoyle's filmography? Some of the character names he has portrayed are hysterically funny!


	11. A lesson in Trading Spaces

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP (and somewhat AU).

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

_**Chapter 11/??**_

"_**A lesson in **__**Trading Spaces**__**"**_

Grissom pulled up to the curb and saw Captain Brass, notepad out, speaking to a slender, well-dressed young man. The young man was gesturing toward the building and his body language plainly showed that he was upset. Gil parked the Tahoe and brought his gunmetal gray field kit with him, wondering what to expect. Two uniformed officers stood more or less attentively at the front door of the house. It was clearly identified as a "model home". _A model for what?_ Gil thought. Nearby he could see six or seven other homes in varying stages of completion.

"Thanks, Mr. Merrifield," Brass was saying as Grissom approached. "We'll take it from here." He put his notepad back into his inner coat pocket and sighed as Merrifield moved off to one side. The man looked utterly defeated as he slumped into a wrought iron patio chair, shaking his head.

"What have we got, Jim?" Gil asked quietly, removing his sunglasses.

Brass cast a weary look toward the impending sunrise. "Inside. You're gonna to love this one." Jim's face gave him no further clues, so he shrugged and followed the detective in.

The sight that greeted them was right out of a horror film: it looked like blood was seeping from every wall and from the ceiling as well.

"Matthew Merrifield is the interior designer for Pathways homes. He came in early today to begin setting up the model," Brass began, clearing his throat against the strong ammonia-like smell. "Furniture guys are supposed to be here by nine. He opened up shop, saw this, and called us. I don't think he'll be showing the model home today."

Gil had squatted down in the tiled foyer, not yet stepping onto the carpeted area. He looked at the carpet and saw only a few footprints among the days-old vacuum cleaner tracks. "Interesting color scheme he's working with. I'm not sure it does anything for me," said Grissom sardonically. "Anybody walk in here besides our Mr. Merrifield?" He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and was shining his flashlight across the taupe carpeting.

"Just me and the place is clear: no bodies, no sign of a struggle, vandalism, B&E, nothing, nada." Jim paused to loosen his top shirt button and tie against the heat and humidity inside the house. "I saw this in a movie once."

Grissom opened his field kit and pulled a sterile swab from its packet, then dabbed it carefully in the red material on the wall nearest them. "Really? Which one was that?" He removed a small plastic bottle from the kit and added several drops of phenolphthalein to the end of the swab: no color change.

"_Amityville_ _Horror_."

"Hmm. Pheno negative," he said, showing Jim the swab. "It's not blood. I'm partial to Hitchcock films myself."

Brass smiled slightly. "Yeah, he's okay too. So you don't think it could be our Nosebleed boy-wonder working on his sequel?" Jim was referring to a case they had worked in which a young man deliberately expirated blood from his nostrils on_ every _wall of his apartment to get back at a negligent apartment complex manager. It turned out that the manager was the one with a criminal secret to hide: his missing wife's body in a water softener's brine tank down in the building's basement.

Grissom shook his head, stood and pulled a small digital camera from his windbreaker pocket. He also slipped out of the jacket and left it draped over his field kit. Jim nodded to himself since it looked like a good idea. He transferred his LVMPD shield to his shirt pocket and left his coat with the field kit as well. Both of them were starting to perspire in their shirtsleeves; it felt like the climate control in the place was non-existent.

"Shall we?" Gil asked, gesturing into the room with the camera.

"Ready when you are, Mr. DeMille."

The model home was a "family starter" at two thousand square feet: three bedrooms, one and a half bath, with a kitchen and combined living room/dining room. From every wall and ceiling, a reddish material seeped from the drywall, making a sharp contrast to the fresh white paint. Surprisingly enough, the red material did not seem to drip down onto the carpeted floor in any of the rooms. Grissom was beginning to agree with Jim's cinematographic assessment of the scene as he collected digital photos and several more swabs of the material; there was no overt evidence of a crime anywhere in the house.

Opening one walk-in closet door, they were met with a fresh wave of the pungent ammonia-like odor. Jim's eyes watered. "Whoof! What is that smell?"

Gil's eyes were watering slightly too. "Urine maybe? Almost, but not quite; I don't know. Did Merrifield indicate that the A/C was off all weekend?" Jim grunted an affirmative from his side of the room. He stopped and turned in a full circle where he was standing in the living room, then sighed. "Let's get some air."

Brass immediately agreed and they made their way back to the front walkway. Matt Merrifield met them at the sidewalk.

"Captain Brass? What do I tell my boss?" He looked and sounded worried.

Jim held up one hand and spoke calmly. "Nothing yet, Mr. Merrifield. We're still working on it." He came to stand by Grissom who had discreetly waved him over.

"Jim, I want to call in a microbiologist on this one," he said cautiously, as if he was expecting an argument.

Brass remained expressionless, his analytical brain processing what he'd just seen inside. "You have a theory?"

Grissom smirked. "I don't work theories, I work evidence."

Brass gave him a look, and then he chuckled. "Yeah, right. Gimme a break, Cousin."

"I think it might be a microbe, Jim, unfortunately it's not my field of expertise. We've got the samples taken and the photos, but Mickey should see this _in situ_ to give us a better idea of what we're looking at," Gil went on, checking his watch: it was nearly seven. "You said yourself that we have absolutely no evidence of a crime at this point. And you're here just in case there's trouble, right?"

"Okay, so you call the other Bug Doctor, and I'll get O'Riley to drive her out here. Vega's on vacation." Jim chuckled again, and shook his head at the friendly reminder of his reaction to the last time Mickey was in the field on a case with the CSIs. They both pulled out their cell phones and were dialing.

"Five bucks says Dr. Kaye can name that bug in ten seconds," Grissom said, winking mischievously.

Brass snorted. "No way in hell I'm taking that bet. This is my golf-sharking niece we're talking about here." He paused to listen as O'Riley picked up on the second ring. "And it'll be five seconds or less, Professor. Ray, it's Jim. I need you to meet up with Dr. Kaye in the lab or the CSI break room and run her out here to the Pathways development. Yeah, I know what time it is. Don't rush. Yeah, thanks."

About a half-hour later, Mickey and Detective O'Riley were walking up the driveway of the model home; they hadn't really rushed and had made a convenience store stop on the way. The sergeant had tossed their two empty plastic orange juice bottles into the nearby flat dumpster on the way to where Grissom and Brass were waiting. All four wore sunglasses against the bright Las Vegas morning.

"Dr. Gil, you said you had something interesting for me to see?" she greeted. "Hi, Uncle Jim. What's up?"

Mickey had acquired a thin neck chain for her forensics lab identification badge, and if he didn't know better, looked like she had been doing CSI work for years. O'Riley followed one or two paces behind her, his large frame looming like a bodyguard with a buzz-cut. Grissom and Brass exchanged a quick glance as if they both had thought the same thing.

Brass smiled faintly in welcome, raising his eyebrows well above the rims of his sunglasses. "Take a look inside, Mouse." The uniformed officers stepped aside as all four passed them; their curiosity now piqued at the arrival of a second detective and a second scientist.

Grissom held the door for Mickey to go in first. The ammonia-like odor hit them again, but he and Brass were now almost used to it. O'Riley drew in a quick breath and stifled a curse. Mickey didn't react to the smell at all, or so it seemed.

"Welcome to Amityville, boys and girls," exclaimed Mickey softly, pulling on a pair of latex gloves from her slacks pocket. "That's an awful lot of _Serratia_, Dr. Grissom." She removed her sunglasses and gave a low whistle. "Damn..."

Gil turned to Brass who had just stepped into the foyer in time to hear the diagnosis. "About three seconds, Jim," he said pointedly, the look on his face amused. Brass just shook his head. "Is that definitive, Mickey?"

She faced him and nodded. "Yes, sir. Odor and pigmentation are both very definitive for _Serratia_ _marcescens_. Just a really weird place to find it is all, like we should use this in a journal publication kind of weird." Mickey indicated his field kit under the two jackets. "May I?"

Grissom grabbed his windbreaker and handed Jim his suit coat. "Be my guest." He watched with interest as she pulled out his digital thermometer and placed it carefully on the open-air kitchen counter, and then turned back to scanning the walls, a look of disbelief on her face.

"Have you seen this bug before, Mick?" Jim asked, retrieving his notepad from the coat pocket to scribble a few more notes.

"Sure. I use _Serratia_ in my microbiology courses for teaching several different types of labs, however not nearly this much of it." She paused to check the readout on the thermometer when it beeped for attention. "Thirty-nine C. Mighty hot for this bug to be red."

"How so?" Grissom inquired. He took the thermometer from her and returned it to his field kit.

"Usually it goes red or pink at 25 degrees C incubation. It's environmental in origin, most of the time," she shrugged, stifling a yawn. "Excuse me. We use it in teaching labs because the pigmentation is genetically controlled, and easily manipulated; UV light, chemical mutagens, what have you. And it's generally not considered to be a frank pathogen, which is good for students to use. I can check it out better for you back at the lab."

Gil nodded, bending down to collect his field kit. "The samples and photos will be on your bench by the start of tonight's shift; it'll keep. Get some rest today and then look at it with fresh eyes. Jim, I'll leave you to talk to Mr. Merrifield. No blood, no foul, my friend."

Brass smirked at him. "Thanks. Ray, go ahead and book off from here if you don't have anything else going on."

O'Riley grinned and shucked off his enormous jacket. He was absolutely drenched with perspiration but smiling broadly at the prospect of being off shift. "I'll do that, Captain."

"Thanks for the ride, Sarge," Mickey told him.

"Yeah, Doc. See you later," he said cheerfully and was gone.

Jim shook his head and chuckled, watching as both Grissom and O'Riley pulled away in their vehicles. "Give me a few minutes, Mouse. Paperwork then pancakes, how's that?"

Mickey slipped off the latex gloves to throw away and put her sunglasses back on, grinning. "Sounds great. And I taped the Red Sox-Tampa Bay game last night. Pedro was pitching at Tropicana Field; very cool."

"Alright, Mouse," said Uncle Jim. "Way to go, kiddo."

TBC

A/N thank you for reading this far! Feedback, comments and critiques are most welcome ;-)


	12. What's for dessert?

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP (and somewhat AU).

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language; a mild pair of lemons in this one.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

_**Chapter 12/??**_

"_**What's for dessert?"**_

Catherine let herself in from the hot July morning and couldn't help but smile at the sound of Tony Bennett dulcet tones coming from the stereo in Jim's living room. He knew she loved that CD because it got her in the mood.

"Hello?" she called out, still smiling to herself. She left her purse and small overnight bag on the table in the entry foyer.

"I'm in the kitchen, Catherine," came Jim's reply. She could hear him singing softly, trying to keep up with Bennett. Brass was fully aware that he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but that didn't stop him from singing when he was alone.

In the kitchen, she was greeted by a sweet scene: fresh flowers on the table set for two; a sizzling something that smelled delicious in the skillet; and, Jim, barefooted but still in his slacks and dress shirt from work. He had a blue-and-white striped towel thrown over one shoulder as he puttered about at the stove.

"Hey, you made it," he greeted, smiling as he came over to her. Jim leaned down to kiss her, and when she deepened the kiss, she tasted something vaguely familiar on his lips and tongue.

"_Champagne_ for breakfast?" Catherine teased, glancing at the tall fluted glasses on the table.

Grinning almost sheepishly, Jim handed her one of the glasses. "Sure, mimosas. Here's yours." She put a hand up to his cheek, so he turned in to kiss her palm before returning to the stovetop.

"Oh, wow, that's nice," she told him after she took a tentative sip, the bubbles tickling her nose. "So, what are we celebrating, Jim?" She sighed tiredly as she sat at one of the set places and slipped out of her shoes, leaving them safely under the kitchen table.

Jim shrugged, serving two plates with omelets and sautéed potatoes and onions. "I dunno. What day is today? I can't keep track anymore…"

Catherine thought a moment. "Wednesday."

Chuckling, he brought over the plates and placed one in front of her at the table. "Then we'll celebrate that." He leaned over and kissed her again before sitting down himself. "What do you think?"

She raised her glass and waited for him to do the same. They touched champagne flutes with a gentle clink. "I love it. This is good," she enthused after tasting the western omelet. "I never knew you could cook like this, Brass."

Jim gave her a suggestive smirk. "Lots about me you don't know, baby." He raised an eyebrow at her but soon relented. "My, uh, _cooking_ _advisor_ thought you'd enjoy a nice romantic breakfast."

Catherine laughed, pleasantly surprised and her eyes twinkling with delight. "And where is the young Dr. Mickey this morning? I left work but I didn't see her in the lab anywhere upstairs." She held her glass for him to refill it from the chilled pitcher of mimosas. They ate and drank, enjoying the company and the conversation.

"Out with Bobby, having a nice romantic fishing trip after work."

"Really? That's great," she said sincerely. "They've been seeing a lot of each other, what, six weeks or so. Is it serious?"

Jim chewed thoughtfully. "Yeah, I think it is."

Catherine nodded her head, approving of the match. "Good for them, I'm glad." Now it was her turn to chew thoughtfully, and to pause for a sip of the champagne-orange juice mixture. "They are a good-looking couple, aren't they?" Jim didn't say anything, but she reached over to squeeze his hand at the tender look on his face.

"I think she needed to get out of Tallahassee for a while," he finally said, his deep baritone voice sounding very gentle just then. "And Mickey fits right in with the young Turks." Brass smiled fondly, thinking about how well his niece was getting along with Greg, Sara, Nick and Warrick. That and how happy she seemed to be spending the summer in Nevada; the heat didn't seem to phase her one bit. Of course, very happy too, to have met Bobby Dawson, the ballistics technician on the graveyard shift.

Catherine leaned over, kissed him on the cheek and picked up his empty plate to carry to the kitchen counter. "Not that I think Gil, you or I are old, but sometimes I feel like a parental spectator watching a precocious bunch of kids at a science fair. Apart from the language, the baseball debates or the crossword puzzle bets, I mean. I don't think Vegas bookies bother with the science fair circuit." She chuckled at the exceptions she had just strung together.

He laughed in concurrence, thinking about the recent college football predictions that had already come out for the fall 2003 season: even Bobby Dawson had gotten involved when his UT-Austin "Longhorns" had entered the pre-season top 25 over Nick's Texas A&M "Aggies". "I know. Nobody gets any slack in that break room, that's for sure."

For the next several minutes, Willows busied herself with scraping their plates and rinsing them at the sink. Jim knew better than to protest (he learned quickly), so he just let her enjoy the task while he sipped his drink and enjoyed the view of the lithe, beautiful woman in his kitchen.

"So, are you okay with Mickey going out in the field now? Grissom told me she's a natural investigator," asked Catherine over one shoulder, referring to the recent trip, at his call, to the Pathways housing development.

"No, I'm not, not really," he admitted with a sigh. Jim finished his mimosa and left the glass beside her at the sink. "But what am I gonna do, forbid it? That wouldn't be smart or remotely possible. The Mouse is stubborn like her uncle. It runs in my family; believe me, one generation after the next, and all the way back to Ireland." He chuckled and shook his head.

"Take a deep breath and count to ten. Twice maybe," she advised, smiling. "It doesn't matter how old they get, we always worry, Jim. Lindsey is growing up so fast already that I want to keep her all to myself. Like you said, not smart and not possible." Catherine chuckled at the thought.

Jim came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. With her occupied hands wet and soapy at the moment, she couldn't really do anything but relax into him as he kissed her neck and her ear; she shivered as his tongue moved lightly, teasing along her exposed skin. It didn't take long for her to feel a warm, throbbing hardness in her lower back as he pressed against her.

"Yep, you got that right," he murmured into her hair, sighing as he breathed in the subtle fragrance of flowers. It didn't matter what she wore, Catherine Willows always smelled good to him. It was intoxicating, and addictive.

Catherine carefully dried her hands and she felt his palms come up her sides to caress her breasts through her blouse as she stood at the sink, causing her to gasp at the sensations he was arousing. She let him linger a bit longer before she turned in his arms and he pressed even closer, moving their hips gently to the music coming from the other room. He couldn't sing but he sure could dance when he wanted to. Jim kissed her deeply again and a soft groan of pleasure escaped them both.

"So, what's for dessert?" she asked when they paused to catch their breath. She realized that she was tingling all over, and didn't think it was just from the champagne they'd had at breakfast.

Jim leaned back slightly and gave her a smoldering look, taking both of her hands in his as he started walking backwards, leading her to his bedroom. "_You_ are, baby." His blue eyes twinkled when he winked at her, making her start to tingle once more.

-/-/-/-/-/-

As the garage door was closing behind them, Mickey opened her side of the truck to let the dog out of the cab. "Come here, Beau. We all smell like fish," she said.

Bobby laughed. "He can head out back. Go on, dog. Get!"

The large, black Catahoula hound barked in cheerful reply and bounded off behind Mickey as she opened the door to the backyard for him. He went straight to his water bowl, well, bucket really, and began slurping noisily. Mickey giggled at the sights and sounds from Beau as she closed and locked the door.

"All that water at the lake, and he rushed home just like a kid to have his own stuff."

Bobby had just transferred the gallon-sized Ziploc bag of trout fillets to the upright freezer and left the small cooler to drain at the garage sink. "I never said he was too sharp, plus dat Beau's Engleesh, it ain't so good," he answered, letting his Cajun persona peek out a little. Dawson's father was from west Texas, but his mother was from the deep Cajun country in southern Louisiana.

Mickey smiled and shook her head at him. "Okay, Bobby Boucher. I'm hitting the shower," she told him, referring to one of his favorite movies ("The Waterboy"). She made sure that the rinsed fishing rods were hanging straight from their proper racks before she went in.

"I'll be right behind you, cherie." Bobby watched her then literally had to shake himself to pay attention to what he was doing. He could feel a hunger for her building in him, so much so that he couldn't wait to be naked with her. He'd been thinking about it all morning in the boat. Humming softly, Bobby put away the rest of the fishing gear before he too went inside.

The bathroom mirror was already well steamed by the time he joined Mickey in the shower. "Got room for me?" he asked as he opened the glass door, standing stark naked on the bath mat. She was leaning back into the running water, eyes closed and rinsing shampoo out of her hair. Bobby felt another strong stirring in his groin as he enjoyed the view.

She wiped her eyes carefully and opened them with a look of invitation for him. "Absolutely." She stepped aside, grabbing the washcloth and liquid soap for herself. Bobby stepped in, stealing a kiss before he got under the water.

The waterproof radio was on, and they spent several enjoyable minutes as Mickey soaped her body and Bobby shampooed his hair. From time to time, they accidentally (on purpose) bumped into one another in the shower stall.

"Here, turn around," she suggested when she'd finished soaping up. Adding a little dab more of fresh shower gel to the cloth, she massaged it into Bobby's back and bottom. Hands braced, he leaned into the tiled wall, rinsing his face and hair under the warm stream of water, and murmuring sounds of pleasure at her gentle touch.

"Merci, bebe," he said. "Hey, where you goin' with that?" Bobby squirmed a little as she reached around his hip with her other hand to caress him. A soft groan escaped his lips when she fondled his erection with soapy fingers.

"Who me? I'm not doing anything," she chuckled into his shoulder, pressing her wet breasts into his warm back, and continuing to stroke him gently. Bobby was actually feeling a bit dizzy from the sensations, and thoroughly enjoying it too.

With an effort, he turned around and took the washcloth from her hand. "Your turn, Mickey-darlin'." Kissing her neck, he faced her away from him and rubbed the lightly-scented lather onto her back then reached around to her stomach with both hands, managing to drop the washcloth to the shower floor. Now it was her turn to squirm and moan a little as he massaged her breasts with one hand, reaching down to stroke between her legs with the other.

"Oh, cherie, you feel so good," he breathed into her ear. The water was still warm and relaxing when she turned back around to him. Lifting one leg up to the recessed shower seat, Mickey reached down and guided him inside her. They both groaned as he pressed fully in.

"Yeah, you feel pretty good yourself," she drawled in a husky voice before kissing him deeply, tasting his lips and tongue. She held onto his shoulders as he pressed her back against the wall and began to slowly thrust into her. With one hand grasping her buttocks, and his other holding on to the vertical bar for leverage as he picked up the pace, she could feel his chest and shoulder muscles flexing under his skin, and she reveled in the gentle strength of his slim, attractive body.

They were both glad for the non-slip surface that he'd installed because their legs grew shaky from effort. How long they carried on like this was anyone's guess, but when she reached her peak of pleasure and gasped his name, Bobby wasn't far behind. Still kissing tenderly, they carefully disengaged and went on caressing each other's backs. Just as they were pulling apart to rinse off again, the hot water ran out on them.

"Shoot, doggies," Bobby exclaimed, flinching with surprise as the cold water hit him first. "Man, that's cold!"

Mickey drew in a sharp breath against the icy water but rinsed herself quickly and stepped out to dry off. She laughed as she heard him quietly complaining to the showerhead. "Last one to bed is a rotten egg!"

Bobby started to protest but grabbed the towel she held just out of his reach, and he started laughing too, nearly falling over on the padded bath mat. She wrapped another towel around her body and dashed into his bedroom. "Uh uh, _cheater_…" he called after her.

Mickey was already shivering under the covers when he joined her there. Still in a playful mood, he slipped under the blankets and got on top of her, resting his weight on his knees and elbows, and started kissing her face and breasts. "You win, you win. What do I have to do for your prize, little darlin'?" He chuckled at her impishly thoughtful expression.

Without speaking, Mickey wrapped herself completely around him, and started kissing him back. It wasn't long before the chill from the shower was totally forgotten as they generated plenty of body heat.

They'd worry about sleep later.

TBC


	13. Ringside Seats

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP (and somewhat AU).

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and mild coarse language.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

_**Chapter 13/??**_

"_**Ringside seats"**_

"That was really good," Mickey said, taking another sip from her bottle of Coors light.

"Yeah, I didn't think I'd like the shrimp fajitas, but it sounded alright with the steak and chicken," Bobby replied, sliding closer in the booth to put his arm around her. He brought his beer along the table, sliding it with him. "So, how is your _bug_ stuff going?"

Mickey leaned into his side, appreciating his easy-going affection, and loving that voice—"Not bad. I miss working with Dr. Robbins though. He is a really cool dude, and he so much reminds me of my Dad." She laughed suddenly at a thought. "Daddy would flip out if I suggested we could have a conversation over a corpse."

Bobby laughed with her, giving her a quick kiss on the ear. "I bet, unless it was a fish corpse."

They sat comfortably for quite a while, enjoying the music and company. Their waitress came back once or twice to check on them, winking when she saw that they occupied only a small section of the large, oval-shaped booth. It was all that had been available when they'd arrived. She smiled at both of them as she cleared the empty beer bottles and left two fresh ones, noticing that they were holding hands.

"I hope I'm not nosy for saying so, but you look good together," she told Mickey. "Really."

Mickey reddened, pleased. "Thank you, Lisa." Bobby grinned too and gave her a squeeze. He held his beer bottle to hers, clinking the glass carefully.

"Come on, darlin'. Let's go dance so I can do something else with my hands in public," he said, waggling his eyebrows and giving her a hound dog expression of an unspoken promise of paybacks later. It made her laugh outwardly, and tingle with pleasure inwardly. She'd snuck her hand in his lap a few times during the course of their dinner, making him squirm a little each time. They were both playful; confident and generous in their lovemaking, and comfortable enough to enjoy it.

They danced at least two songs, and once again Mickey marveled at what a great dancer Dawson was. The selection from the jukebox switched to something that sounded more like Louisiana, and Bobby hooted. Several others joined him, though not exactly sure what they were cheering about.

"Now we're talkin', cherie," he drawled, holding her closer, and grinning suggestively.

Toward the middle of the song, a very drunk woman grabbed Mickey's shoulder and shouted at her: "I told you, bitch! Stop staring at my man."

Mickey turned to her, surprised. "Hey, whoa! I'm sorry, I think you have me mistaken for someone else." By now, a number of the dancing couples around them had stopped to watch the commotion.

"Uh, no, I don't think so! I've told you a thousand times already—" she shouted again. An embarrassed young man was trying to pull her back. His eyes were wide and apologetic as he made to move his date from the dance floor.

Mickey tried again, still calm and not wanting to provoke anything. "Look, lady. I don't know who or what you're talking about."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" the woman shouted again. Bobby and the woman's date spoke up at this, just about at the same time:

"Take it easy—"

"Come on now—"

Most of the onlookers were smiling nervously and whispering comments. Mickey shook her head. She gently reached over to touch the woman's arm, still trying to be calm.

"Okay, then let me buy you a drink," she offered. This only made the woman angrier. Her face twisted in an ugly grimace at she came forward, hands raised.

"Stupid—"

It happened quickly, so fast in fact that some of the eyewitnesses were not exactly sure what they'd seen. From a shout of "Lookout!" then in the next few heartbeats, everyone saw Mickey clasping one hand over her right eye with blood coming through her fingers. She stood in a now cleared-out part of the dance floor, a few paces away from her attacker.

Her attacker, on the other hand, was writhing on the floor in total agony, clutching at a dislocated shoulder, her face a crimson mask from a severely broken nose. Mickey heard Bobby talking to her but couldn't make out the words over the adrenaline buzz in her ears. She was only aware of his arms supporting her and helping her to a seat.

Security had called the police and EMS, but the music never stopped.

-/-/-/-/-/-

Mickey drew in a sharp breath at whatever Dr. Leever was doing in Desert Palms' ER treatment room four. "Ouch!" The tall, dark and handsome Sri Lankan was gloved as he sutured her lacerated eyebrow.

He chuckled softly, wincing a little, and looked over at Bobby, who was watching with concern for his date. "Sorry. Just a few more to be sure it's closed safely," he told her. "I'll write a script before you go, Miss."

He knew the local anesthetic was working fine but Mickey was flinching at the action so close to her eye anyway. It was a normal reaction, no matter how old the patient was and he'd seen it a thousand times in his ER.

She heard Bobby's voice say "Captain?" and out of the corner of her eye, saw Jim walking in behind the doctor. The young woman tried not to move too much from her seat as the doctor drew his suture needle again.

"_Oh shit_, Uncle Jimmy. I can explain…" she began, shifting self-consciously on the exam table.

"These kids today always coming to Vegas to get into all kinds of mischief," he said evenly, part in concern, part in amusement as he came around to where Mickey was being treated. "Hiya docs. So how you doin'?"

"Good evening, Captain," Leever responded, and then he pulled back slightly on the rolling stool to look questioningly at Mickey. He looked again at Brass and smiled as he saw the resemblance: same cheekbones and everything.

"Yes, my Uncle Jim," said Mickey, shrugging slightly. "I guess you guys know each other."

He nodded, still smiling. "I'm almost done here, Jim. The uniformed officer already took down her statement." Dr. Leever continued suturing and then applied a small gauze and tape to protect his handiwork.

Brass reached up to his badge, shaking his head and covering the gold shield momentarily with one hand. "This isn't a cop visit, Sunil." He leaned in to get a closer look at the cut as the doctor worked. "Christ, what'd you get hit with, Mickey? A hockey puck from the blue line?"

"Some kind of big ass ring, I guess." She looked down at her ruined yellow sundress and sighed. It had been a favorite. "On a roundhouse left; I didn't look close enough to see if the stone was real. Probably a cheap zirconium."

Dr. Sunil Leever cleared his throat as he finished with the suture tray, and made some notes on Mickey's chart. He also took a prescription pad from his lab coat pocket and quickly scribbled on the top sheet.

"I'll leave you with the police then," he said with a teasing wink. "The nurse will be back shortly with your release orders, okay?"

"Yes, thanks, Dr. Leever," Mickey replied, taking the proffered script. The young doctor chuckled as he left, giving a quick salute to the detective.

Brass leaned in again and squeezed her knee. "But I bet I should see the other guy," he stated quietly, his eyes locking with hers. "What happened, kiddo?"

Bobby stood and moved to step out of the room. "I'll just give ya'll a few minutes, Captain…"

Jim gave him a kind look and stopped him with a short gesture. "You're okay, Dawson."

He smiled his approval when Mickey reached over to take Bobby's hand and pulled him to stand next to her. Brass stuck both hands in his trousers pockets and lounged against the counter, unconsciously entering his detective mode. "So…?" He gently prompted his niece to continue just as he'd done with suspects and eyewitnesses over the course of decades in his professional life.

"_So_…this woman was extremely drunk and accusing me of zooming in on her guy," said Mickey, heaving a sigh and plowing forward. "Bobby and I were totally minding our own business, dancing and having a good time, and they finally played a decent song." Dawson smiled at her and murmured words of agreement. "Uncle Jim, I tried three or four times to talk her down, and that's the truth. Then she came at me and took a wild swing at my head." Mickey gestured vaguely toward her injured face.

"_And_ got a broken nose _and_ dislocated shoulder for her trouble," Brass said, raising his eyebrows at her. "What kind of kung fu did you use, anyway? That arm nearly came off!"

Mickey reddened with embarrassment and looked down at her hands. "It's not kung fu. Dad taught me some Navy hand to hand stuff when we kids were growing up and…"

"Relax, relax…twenty witnesses said you acted entirely in self defense," the detective assured her. "Are you planning to press assault charges?"

She looked surprised at the thought. "What? No, no way. I just want to get home and cleaned up; we're tired and hadn't expected such a late night."

The nurse came in carrying a small plastic cup and a bubble pack of Tylenol. "Here we are, Miss Michelle," she called cheerfully, handing over the water and silver packet. "No driving, no alcohol and no hair coloring tonight, honey. Get some rest if you can; those stitches are going to ache a little later on." She placed the folded release discharge orders with Mickey's purse.

Mickey laughed as she took the meds and swallowed them down with the sip of water. "Yes, ma'am." Bobby helped her off the table and assured himself she was steady on her feet before he stepped back.

Nurse Hamilton's appraising gaze took in both Bobby Dawson and Jim Brass; the former man in dark jeans and cowboy boots, the latter in a well-tailored blue suit and tie. She gave a soft sound of approval as she went on to her next patient.

"Mm-mmm-mm. Why decide on just _one_ handsome man to have around, girlfriend?" The middle-aged black woman winked at Bobby as she passed by.

Bobby shook his head, blushing, and gave Brass an apologetic smile. "Mickey, sugar, I am always in so much trouble around you." Jim laughed and shook his head too.

The three of them left the ER together and walked to Bobby's truck in the parking lot. "You okay to drive home?" Brass asked Bobby directly.

"Yes, sir. Three hours in an emergency room is better than my Mama's chicory café au lait."

Jim reached out and shook his hand firmly. "Alright then. Mouse, be good Sweetie. I gotta go catch some more hooligans and bad guys," he told her after a hug and a kiss.

"Good night, Uncle Jimmy. Thanks." She didn't think to ask who had called him, and she really didn't care to know.

He gave a wave and watched them pull away, then headed for his own car, shaking his head. "Jesus, Mouse. Your mother is absolutely going to kill me…" he chuckled under his breath.

-/-/-/-/-/-

A few hours later, the sun coming up brightly in the east, Jim pushed the front door to his house closed and locked it behind him. He heard the television on in the living room as he unloaded his belt, placing the keys, Glock 9mm pistol and handcuffs case on the kitchen counter.

"Is anyone nude in my living room?" he called, heading to his bedroom to change out of his work clothes. "Better not be…"

"No, not anymore," Mickey replied in the same vein. "That was earlier; you missed it, sorry."

Jim smiled as he passed them, undoing his necktie and shirt collar. He saw Bobby stretched out on the over-stuffed green leather recliner, and guessed that Mickey was over on the sofa. It had become her favorite spot to watch TV during her time in residence.

"Good morning, Jim," said Bobby, stretching and putting the recliner back into its normal position.

Brass came back, suit coat, shoes and socks left behind in the bedroom. "Hey, Bobby. You guys have a good night after the ER sewing lessons?"

"Yes. Nice and quiet," Bobby told him, pulling on his boots. "Your girl got a little ticked off that I stayed to baby sit though."

Mickey grunted softly as she swung off the couch: "Ow, damn." Jim noticed that she was carrying a small towel and a bag of frozen baby green peas back to the kitchen.

"Hungry, Mouse? I thought you hated peas," he asked, indicating the package that she was returning to the freezer.

"Icepack." She got the orange juice out of the refrigerator and turned to ask if he wanted any. Mickey stopped in her tracks at the shocked look on his face, and then he started laughing. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, now _that_ face is just too pretty on you, young lady," Jim teased her. He got several juice glasses out of the cupboard.

Mickey looked in the small kitchen mirror and gingerly touched her right cheekbone. A dark bruise had developed around Dr. Leever's bandage. "Holy crap, Batman!" She started laughing too. Dawson came into the kitchen and had to bite his lower lip, but ended up chuckling anyway.

"Alright, alright, no fair ganging up on the injured," she told the two men. "I'm gonna really catch hell at work tonight, aren't I?" She checked her watch and made sure it was appropriate to take another dose of pain meds. The small prescription bottle rested on the countertop.

Bobby slipped on his black cowboy hat and winked at her under the brim. "Yep, probably. Bye, Mickey." He tilted his head and gently kissed her, avoiding the bruised right cheek and eyebrow ridge. "See ya'll back at the ranch, Captain."

After Bobby had gone, the detective went searching around in the fridge for something to eat. He found a large glass bowl, covered with plastic wrap. "What's this?" He lifted the wrap and took a careful sniff. Brass had lived alone for so long that it was actually entertaining to find decent, edible leftovers in his refrigerator. He was enjoying his niece's extended summer visit to Nevada just as much as she was, he was sure.

"Southwestern grilled chicken salad," Mickey replied. "Bobby made it a few hours ago."

Jim got out a fork and had a small taste. "Yeah, pretty good." He decided to fill a bowl. "Want some?" It looked like it had huge pieces of chicken; red, green and yellow bell pepper; and, plenty of cayenne seasoning.

Mickey yawned. "No, thank you. I ate already." She looked in the mirror again, shaking her head ruefully. "Good God, what have I done…" Taking her orange juice with her, she sat at the kitchen table and unpacked her laptop computer from its case. It started through its warm-up and start programs with several beeps and whirring noises.

Jim came and joined her at the table with his food and OJ. "Did anybody tell you there's an ice hockey league in Vegas, if you were thinking of going that route," he teased. "You'd fit right in with a mug like that one."

"Nope. I can't skate."

Brass looked at her in mock horror, and gasped. "What?! You have got to be kidding me?! I thought all the Brasses got the skating genes." He shuffled through the pile of mail, sorting the bills from the junk. "Man, this is great. If you don't marry that Bobby Dawson, I will in a heartbeat." He pursed his lips in a very effeminate expression that made her laugh out loud.

Just then, the portable phone rang. Jim checked the caller I.D. and immediately recognized the number and area code. He held it as it rang twice more in his hand. "You forgot to call your Mom back, didn't you? Turkey." He pressed the answer button before it was picked up by voice mail. "Hi, Mags. Yeah, I'm great, just got in from work. No, not bad at all. Mm-hm, she's right here, hang on."

Mickey tried to get up from the table to avoid the phone hand off, but he'd been too quick for her. She sighed tiredly. _Shit_.

"Hi, Mom…"

-/-/-/-/-/-

That evening, at the beginning of the shift, Mickey checked first in the CSI break room. Sara, Nick and Warrick were there, awaiting case assignments for the night. Mickey had already put her purse and jacket in the assigned locker, and carried her laptop computer for the shift in the DNA lab, keeping good documentation for the prokaryotic DNA project. She now wore the light blue lab coat that identified her as a technician in the Forensics/I.D. unit.

Warrick looked up to greet her as she came from the refrigerator, dropping off leftovers for later. "Wassup, Mickey? Whoa!" he exclaimed. "What happened to you?"

Nicky and Sara looked up at his tone, and stared, shocked at the bandage and bruise. "Damn," said Nick, whistling softly.

"I got into it with some mean drunk chica at the Rio Bravo last night," Mickey said, shrugging. "It turned, um, _weird_."

Sara's eyes widened. "That was you? I heard about it."

Mickey rolled her eyes. "Oh, no. How?"

Nick and Warrick both snickered. Sara glared at them, but flashed her gap-toothed grin, bearing the friendly teasing with good humor. "I have a police scanner at home. I heard that two women got into an altercation; one was taken to Desert Palms with a seriously broken nose and messed up shoulder. Bad too. The other sustained minor injuries to the face." Mickey raised her good eyebrow and pointed at the bandage with a sheepish smile.

"I guess five stitches would constitute _minor_ injuries to the face. And hey, I met the nice-looking ER doc you were telling me about. He's cool."

"Does Bobby know about this venture into female boxing?" Brown asked. "I'm thinking UFC would be good too, girly girl. Real hot ticket."

"Warrick, he was right there with me," Mickey told him. "But I don't know how to punch. The elbow is the strongest contact point in the body; use that."

Warrick gave her a skeptical look. "Seriously? I'll teach you." He held up both fists over the table and gently jabbed, bobbed and weaved in his seat.

Nick had to laugh. "Oh, yeah, million dollar baby. That's just what we need around here…"

The four of the thirty-somethings were still laughing about this when Grissom and Willows arrived. "Sorry I'm late, gang," said Gil, dropping a stack of folders on the break room table. Catherine sat beside Mickey and began doctoring her coffee with artificial sweetener, listening in. "Annual evals are coming up, so I'll have the forms to you by day after tomorrow." He ignored the chuckles around the room; he was terrible about keeping up with paperwork, even after two years as CSI night-shift supervisor.

"Mickey, how about we start with you," he said, looking across the table. It was then that he saw the bandage on her right eyebrow and gave a sympathetic wince.

She tossed up her hands. "_Jesus wept_! OK, OK. This chick at Rio Bravo got all rowdy last night and thought I was hitting on her boyfriend. She started something; I finished it; end of story." Mickey sounded a bit defensive, and her jaw was set almost stubbornly.

Gil covered up a shadow of a smile and looked at her over the rims of his glasses. He cleared his throat and sounded professorial. "I _meant_ how about we start with your progress report on the bacterial DNA project you and Greg have been working on."

Now it was Mickey's turn to ignore the chuckles around the table. She blushed hard but continued with a straight face: "It looks good so far. We're designing primers and should be able to configure the database tonight. I've got some standard ATCC cultures incubating for a few trial run experiments but they won't be ready for another 48 hours." At the teasing applause from the others, she carefully plopped her head down on the black canvas computer case in front of her and groaned with embarrassment. Catherine reached over and patted her on the back.

Grissom was trying hard not to laugh out loud, not wanting to encourage anymore razzing from the others. He did, however, agree that it was a pretty funny misunderstanding; Jim had informed him that she'd not been seriously hurt in the incident. "Anything else to report?"

"No, sir. I think that's it for now," said Mickey, her voice muffled as she spoke into the table. Her shoulders were shaking as she laughed at herself.

"Good, moving on to this evening's assignments…" said Grissom, winking at Catherine.

-/-/-/-/-/-

It took a few days, but things eventually settled down after Mickey's "bar brawl". The final note was a pair of Warrick's boxing gloves hanging from her locker door. She promptly challenged him to a race in the P.D. pool, and he gracefully backed down; word had gotten back to him about her regular lap swimming from even some of his scuba-diving buddies in the department who occasionally swam when she did, so they called it a friendly draw. Mickey would have seriously dusted him at any distance.

TBC


	14. The Green Monster

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP (and somewhat AU).

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

_**Chapter 14/??**_

"_**The Green Monster"**_

Around 10 p.m. one night in mid-July, Grissom and Brass had stopped off in the Captain's office to complete several cases that had been months in the works. On the desk was a wrapped package that simply said: "_Happy birthday from Mickey_".

"I had no idea, Jim. Happy birthday," Gil told him, smiling. "Is it a big one, or should I even ask?"

Brass chuckled a bit ruefully. "You could say that. Five-oh, Cousin." He reached for his letter opener and read aloud the card first: "_Uncle Pete and Johnny helped me on this one. Hope you like it. P.S. I didn't tell anyone around here, just in case you wanted to keep it quiet!_" Jim looked up and saw the question on Grissom's face. "My two older brothers back home. Oh, would you look at this…"

He lifted from the box a carefully folded Red Sox home (white) jersey, and when he turned it around, he actually gasped in surprise. It was a number nine, and signed "Ted Williams" in black permanent marker. Without question, Jim knew it was authentic; he had wanted one of these since he was a kid.

Grissom, who was an avid baseball fan too, whistled softly. "Impressive. The Splendid Splinter."

Brass held it to his chest to check the size before folding it back and returning it almost reverently to the box. "I was there for his last at-bat at Fenway. He hit…" Just then, his cell phone rang. "No rest for the wicked. Brass, homicide."

Gil sat quietly, reading from one of the case folders, not meaning to listen in. His ears perked up and he met Jim's raised eyebrows when he heard the detective say "Mr. Merrifield." Brass wrote down some further information, gave a few instructions, and then rang off.

"_Shit_. Guess what?" he began, looking mildly irritated.

"Well, by the name I overheard, I'd guess _one_, I need my field kit; and _two_, we need a bug doctor," replied Grissom, his eyes sparkling with interest. "Other than myself, I mean."

"Two for two, my favorite Cub-fan, but this time the model home actually has furniture in it." Jim grabbed his keys from the top drawer as they left his office and headed to the lab area.

"At the Pathways development again?" Gil asked as they went along the open corridor.

"Nope. Painted Desert."

Grissom frowned at this news. The Painted Desert development was on the opposite side of town from the first site. He shook his head in an effort to control his speculation, and stepped into his office quickly to drop off the files and collect his field kit. They decided to take one vehicle this trip.

At the lab area where one of the spaces had been transformed into a microbiology lab, they found Mickey giving instructions to a student intern. "How about duplicates at 25 and 37 degrees C for each culture? Thanks, Janet. I'll be in DNA if you need me." She turned at a knock on the glass.

"Hey, Doc," greeted Brass. "Got a call for you."

"For me? What's up?" She noticed Grissom had arrived behind the Captain, field case in his hand.

"Another red-bug for your collection," Brass told her. A nod from Grissom confirmed it.

"Whoa, crank up the weird-o-meter, Dr. Gil," she commented, then immediately pulled off her lab coat and stuffed several pairs of latex gloves in her pants pocket. In a matter of minutes, they were driving on their way to the Painted Desert development. While Grissom spoke quietly in the backseat on his cell phone, checking in with his other CSIs, Brass turned to Mickey with a broad grin.

"Thanks for the number nine jersey, kid. You didn't have to do that."

She reached across the front seat and gently poked his arm. "I know, but it's your birthday. We looked into a 1986 Bill Buckner ball; didn't think you'd like that as much."

Jim and Gil both chuckled, appreciating the joke. Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner was infamous for being the player who let the ball slip between his legs during the 1986 World Series. The New York Mets went on to win it; Buckner went on to finish his major league baseball career elsewhere.

At the call-scene, all of the houselights, inside and out, were on. They saw Matt Merrifield pacing the driveway as they arrived. He had been waiting anxiously to meet them, and launched right in.

"Captain Brass, this is ridiculous! I mean I've just started to get the last one cleaned up. Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, sounding very agitated.

"I know, Mr. Merrifield," Jim said diplomatically, holding up one hand to cut him off. "Would you please wait over there with my officers while the CSIs take care of this? Thank you."

Reluctantly, Merrifield went over to where Sgt. Ferguson waited. His partner, rookie Officer Lloyd Shepherd stood attentively at the front door.

"Good evening, Dr. Kaye," he greeted as they came up the short walkway. "Captain, Dr. Grissom."

Brass and Grissom nodded as they passed through the front door; Mickey stopped to put on a pair of gloves. "Hi Shep," she replied. "You still swimming?"

Shepherd grinned. "Yes I am, of course. We've been missing you though; nobody drowns like you do. How's the eye?" He nodded at her stitches. Mickey's swim goggles would never fit comfortably over them.

"I'll be back in a week or so, thanks." Mickey chuckled and stepped into the house where Detective Brass and Grissom had begun making their observations. She had met Officer Shepherd at the P.D. pool: she swam laps nearly every night on dinner break, and he had been taking a rescue class (for which she had volunteered as a "drowning victim" when they needed one). He had also been one of the "armed escorts" at her first 419 pickup.

"Same stuff?" Jim asked the two scientists, wrinkling his nose slightly at the smell. He pointed his flashlight at the glistening red ceiling and shuddered.

Grissom glanced over, deferring to Mickey who had begun to remove sterile swabs and containers from his open field kit. "Yes, more than likely. But the good news is that Greg is now set up for its DNA. We'll use the first site culture as an exemplar," she replied.

Brass stepped carefully into the furnished living room as Mickey collected samples and Grissom worked the digital camera. Without warning, an electrical panel box gave a loud crack in the hallway and all of the lights went dark. Jim quickly drew his sidearm and moved back toward Grissom and Mickey. They all heard something crash and break, maybe a closet door, in the back of the house.

"_Outside_, now, both of you," Brass commanded harshly. "Shepherd! Get in here!"

Out on the emergency-lighted front porch, Gil had out his radio and was calling for backup. He could hear Sgt. Ferguson doing the same thing. Merrifield, too, came quickly to the front door, practically screaming: "What in the hell are you people doing? I am not believing this crazy…"

From inside the house, Grissom heard a strangely muffled gunshot, and he instinctively knew it wasn't from a police-issue weapon. He moved himself between Mickey and the front door, trying also to grab Matt Merrifield, as he was about to rush inside.

The next few scenes played out in very fast forward motion, or so it seemed: a person dressed all in black burst from the foyer and out the door; a muffled gunshot whispered again; Merrifield's head jerked back unnaturally and he crumpled in a heap on the front porch, a single gunshot wound to his forehead; and, something hard connected with Grissom's skull and he went down with a bleeding wound on the left side of his temple. The assailant paused briefly, taking aim at Grissom.

Mickey didn't stop to think; she reacted, spun around and connected viciously with the assailant's face. There was a loud crunch as her elbow broke the man's nose, blood erupting everywhere, and her momentum carried her around further as she stripped the gun from his startled grasp. For good measure, two quick, well-placed knees to his groin left him a writhing and bloody mess on the front step. Still seeing red, literally, Mickey cocked then re-cocked the weapon and held it mere inches from his face.

"Don't even flinch you unbelievable piece of shit!" she shouted at him from her one-knee firing stance, angry and startled herself. Her gloved hands didn't shake in the least as she held his 9mm Beretta pointed directly at him. If they hadn't seen it, neither veteran cop would have believed the story. Jim raced from the house just as O'Riley was coming up the lawn, moving more quickly than expected for a man of his size.

"Mickey! God-_dammit_ get out of there," yelled Brass as he came up alongside her, cautiously putting a hand on hers where it held the gun. Jim noted in passing that her grip and balance were textbook-perfect: her father, Jack Kaye, USN Ret., had taught her well.

"It's over; it's over," he said in a calmer tone. "Take it easy, kid. Here Mouse, gimme the weapon. Please." His heart was hammering in his chest, and it took all of his training to keep the emotions at bay just then.

He tried to keep his voice low, calmer than he actually felt at the moment, as he waited for her breathing to slow a bit and to relax. Jim breathed a sigh of relief when her forefinger came off the trigger and she finally looked up at him. He recognized the momentary "thousand yard stare" before she nodded and blinked it away in the next heartbeat.

O'Riley, meanwhile, had checked on the downed Grissom and Merrifield, and was on his radio calling for EMS. Gil was bleeding from the gash, and was unconscious, but unfortunately, Merrifield was dead. As Brass eased the 9mm from her hands and helped Mickey to her feet, two more uniformed officers arrived to restrain and handcuff the mystery assailant who was now wailing with pain, one hand had been trying to hold his nose, the other to hold his crotch. His testicles felt like they were somewhere in the region of his solar plexus.

Brass holstered his own weapon, took a glove from his coat pocket to wrap the grip, and then handed the Beretta and its clip to yet another uniformed officer who bagged and tagged it as evidence. He helped Mickey off to one side and checked her for injuries, shining his flashlight in her eyes. A small band-aid covered stitches at her right eyebrow, but that was pre-existing.

She grimaced and pushed it away; her irritability perfectly normal as the adrenaline was still rushing through her veins. "Hey! Stop it, I'm fine. I'm not hit, Uncle Jimmy." Mickey turned to look at her sleeve where he was tugging around the blood, probing her arm underneath the shirt. "Not mine."

Unconsciously, they both sighed at the same time and said: "What the hell just happened?" Brass steered her to sit in the open driver's side of his car when he saw her legs wobble and she suddenly turned very pale.

"Hang on a sec. We need to get these gloves off," he told her, taking an evidence envelope from the side pocket of the car door. "That's it, inside out. They're evidence now since you held the weapon he fired inside the house." He sealed the envelope, then signed and dated across the seal. It wasn't exactly chain of evidence procedure but he'd pass it along to the assigned CSIs when they arrived.

Mickey's face went tight with concern. "Is Dr. Grissom okay?"

Before Jim could reply, O'Riley arrived and Brass stood to hear his report. "One civilian and one officer dead, Jim. Paramedics are on the way for Gil. He's groggy but alive. It looks like our guy pistol-whipped him after the Beretta jammed."

Mickey nodded. "I cleared it," she said quietly, her hands shaking now. "Officer Shepherd didn't make it, did he?" She looked sad and tired hearing the burly detective's report, learning that an officer had died and that the assailant was in custody.

"From what I saw, Mickey, you saved Grissom's life," Brass told her. "I bet he has a monster headache, but he could have just as easily been shot like Merrifield, or you." She shook her head but couldn't speak.

O'Riley reached in the open window and gave her shoulder a gentle grip. "Yes, you did." He left his hand there until she looked up at him. "Those were some nice moves, too, Doc. Remind me never to piss you off, know what I'm sayin'? I kinda like my cayoons where they are." She gave him a teary smile before he moved away. She couldn't look Brass in the eyes, even though she heard him chuckle quietly at the sergeant's bad Spanish. Not caring who was watching, he leaned down and kissed the top of her head; Jim couldn't describe the relief he felt that his favorite niece was safe.

"I need you to stay right here until the CSIs arrive. You've got evidence on you they'll have to process, okay?" he whispered gently in her ear as he kissed her hair again.

A tiny sniffle escaped her, but she looked up finally, trying to smile at him; Mickey's eyes shone with unshed tears. "Yes, Captain. I won't move a muscle."

TBC


	15. Progress?

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP (and somewhat AU).

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

_**Chapter 15/??**_

"_**Progress?"**_

Later that shift, Detective Sergeant Ray O'Riley sat in Interview room 2 with their suspect, who had been identified as Francis Anthony Scalisi, Staff Sergeant, USAF. Thus far, he had refused to speak beyond name-rank-and-serial-number but O'Riley could be as patient as death when he wanted to; he'd had plenty of practice. Ray read from a file folder on the table in front of him; two uniformed officers stood grimly behind the bandaged Scalisi. Their disdainful looks plainly told him what they thought of his kind.

"This isn't a good night for you, Francis. Killed a cop; killed a civilian; and, got your ass completely whipped by an unarmed woman 'cause you put her boss in the ER," O'Riley began, speaking softly and hoping to provoke any kind of reaction from the young man. "I wouldn't let that get around the barracks if I was you, and there was a boat-load of eyewitnesses. Know what I'm sayin', Francis?"

"It's _Frank_, Buzz. I go by Frank," he said sarcastically, finally speaking. He had rolled up the sleeves of his orange LVMPD jail jumpsuit to show tattooed biceps.

"Whatever you say, Francis," O'Riley replied, shrugging and making a note in the folder. "I can't say I'm real impressed with what the Air Force has been teaching you. So what were you doing out at Painted Desert? House-hunting?"

"Yeah, house-hunting is exactly right." He was working hard to keep up his tough-guy façade.

"At ten o'clock at night and the house is dripping red-bug shit down the walls? What you think, I'm stupid or something?"

Scalisi smirked. "You said it, not me."

"Make it easy on yourself, Francis. We've already got you for two homicides, one assault and a whole bunch of other charges I ain't even thought about yet. Cough it up and maybe Nevada will only execute your sorry ass once. There's no way a moron like you could be workin' alone."

"I've got nothin' to say, Sergeant O'Riley," Scalisi told him, making a show of clamping his lips tightly shut.

"What is it, your balls starting to feel better? Maybe I'll get the Doc down here to kick 'em clear out of your busted up nose," O'Riley said, sneering a little. "I know some guys in the PD who'd pay to see that, Francis. We could charge admission to cover the free beer."

"You and her have a thing going back in the Army or something?"

O'Riley laughed, genuinely amused at this idiot. "Nah. I was in the Marines, and the Doc was in the Girl Scouts. Amazing what merit badges they work on these days, huh? Besides, no way a woman like that would give a dog-face like me the time of day." The big sergeant Detective chuckled sardonically, shaking his head when he noticed that "Francis" was starting to look nervous for some reason.

"I want a JAG lawyer," Scalisi finally demanded; his resolve was beginning to show cracks around the edges. O'Riley figured it was a good time to let the guy marinate for a while anyway.

"No problem, shit-bird. One from Nellis will be here at 1300. _Maybe_ you'll live that long." O'Riley stood and nodded at the two officers to escort Scalisi back to his cell. They had placed him in a single "room" with an officer on suicide watch, taking no chances.

After the suspect had gone, the burly former-Marine stepped into the adjacent observation room where Brass, Willows and Brown had been watching through the one-way mirror.

"Laying it on kinda thick, Ray," Brass told him blandly. "Did you get tape?"

O'Riley took a mini-recorder from his coat pocket and clicked it on. Nothing happened. "Oh, damn. Look at that; dead batteries again. Sorry, Captain."

Brass gave him a significant look while Willows and Brown stifled chuckles. "We'll interview Mr. Scalisi in the presence of his JAG lawyer," Jim said, clearing his throat but satisfied with their progress at the moment. "For now, he's just been processed, fingerprinted and identified, _capisce_?"

Ray nodded and handed over the file to Jim. Catherine already had Dawson's ballistics report on the rounds Doc Robbins had removed from both Officer Shepherd and Matthew Merrifield. They were perfect matches of course, corroborating what all of the eyewitnesses had reported.

Warrick, who had processed Mickey's bloodstained clothes and crime scene gloves, added his photographs to the evidence jacket as the four continued their impromptu conference on the case. "Did Dr. Mickey really put a hurtin' on this guy? That nose is all out of whack."

Brass cleared his throat again, but it was O'Riley who answered: "Yep, big time; you shoulda seen it, 'Rick…bam, bam, _whack_! I really thought she was gonna put a cap in him too, with his _own_ nine-mil." He did nothing to conceal his admiration of her quick actions in the field. "The stupid fu…. Sorry, Catherine."

"Ray, I couldn't have said it better myself." Willows patted his arm fondly and smiled away his slip of the tongue; she'd always suspected he was retired _something_ military. The U.S. Marine Corps just made sense from what she knew about Detective Sergeant Ray O'Riley: he was faster and smarter than he looked, and underestimated by a good many suspects, much to their regret.

"Let's take it easy, people, and be glad it was a fast collar. It's a good thing she _didn't_ shoot him, for Christ's sake," said Jim mildly, not saying out loud what all four of them were thinking. "I haven't reported the incident to Sheriff Mobley yet, and I'm not exactly looking forward to that conversation. Anybody hear from Nick and Sara about Grissom?"

Catherine sighed and nodded, smiling. "They ought to be back any minute now. Gil's going to be fine; the doctor wants to keep him twenty-four hours for observation, probably under restraint."

They all laughed softly at the thought, knowing that Grissom would be chomping at the bit to get back into his lab and back to his experiments; a certain gallows humor seemed to help them with the deeper and more painful emotions they often experienced…one of their own had been killed in the line of duty, and another pair injured.

Warrick stood and stretched, his lanky form well over six feet. "Where is Mickey, anyway?"

"Bug lab. She said something about processing the samples from Painted Desert, ASAP," Catherine replied in her role as acting CSI-supervisor until Gil returned. "I'll speak to her about the one-day administrative leave later. I have a feeling I already know how she's going to react to that news."

Jim took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. He gave Catherine a nod that spoke volumes. "Then I guess I'll be down in the bug lab," said Brass. "Page me if you get anything new." The two detectives and the pair of CSIs parted, each heading off to work on his or her segment of the investigation.

It was a short walk down the hall and through the maze of labs, but Jim soon was making his way into the recently named "bug lab". He saw Mickey and her assistant, Janet, concentrating on their samples, each at their own workbench. Neither had heard him come in, or so he thought.

"Hey, Mickey. How you doin', kid?" he called out quietly, not wanting to startle her as she worked inoculating Petri plates full of a light beige solid (general purpose agar). She had changed into light gray autopsy scrubs since her bloodstained clothing had been taken into evidence; a lab notebook lay propped open to her right.

"Hey, Uncle Jim," she replied, not looking up, but paying attention to the burner flame on her workstation. "Gimme a second to finish these." Mickey's glasses had eased down the bridge of her nose, but she ignored that at the moment.

"No rush. I've never seen a bug doctor at work like this before," joked Brass. He noted her intense concentration with a sense of pride, knowing full well that she was even more motivated to dig into this particular case.

Mickey snickered quietly at him, and he was glad to hear it. The death of her friend, Officer Lloyd Shepherd, had hit her harder than he thought. As Jim stood quietly by and out of the way, he observed her inoculating agar plates with the bacterial samples that had been collected earlier that evening. To his eyes, she moved almost instinctively, and he guessed that this was from years of experience in microbiology lab techniques. When the stack of plates in the plastic rack reached the top, she turned off the burner and sprayed disinfectant solution on the work surface.

"I just came down to see if you wanted to get coffee and bring me up to speed on your _Serratia_ samples," he said, carefully pronouncing the genus name he'd learned, watching as she left the stack of plates in the incubator (and Brass only knew what it was because of the printed label on it), then headed to the sink to wash her hands.

"Yeah, decaf tea for me please…that sounds like a good idea," she replied at once, checking her watch. It was just after four in the morning. "I'll leave these swabs with Greg on the way."

TBC


	16. Off we go

"What bugs you most?"

A CSI fan-fic story, started May 2003; WIP (and somewhat AU).

The usual disclaimers: none of the CBS or CSI characters belong to me, and I make no money doing this kind of thing. I am not affiliated with CBS or CSI in any way.

Spoilers: this is set sometime between Seasons 4 and 5 (so lots of water under the bridge since I started this fic). Greg Sanders is still in the lab.

Rating: T to M for adult themes and language in later chapters.

Pairings: Jim/Catherine; Bobby/OFC.

_**Chapter 16/??**_

"_**Off we go into the wild blue yonder…**__**boom**__**"**_

As it turned out, Mickey took two days of administrative leave, an extra one on top of the mandatory day. But she made good use of the time off, heading to the mall for some "retail-therapy" and to the university library for some actual research, borrowing Uncle Jim's car to do so. She wanted to make sure of a few things before reporting her findings to Grissom.

She woke to the afternoon sunlight streaming in by the side of the mini-blinds. Not surprisingly, she felt well rested, ready to get back in the lab and a little bit confused at finding that she'd slept on the bedroom floor. A quick check around confirmed that yes, this was the guest bedroom, her summer home at Brass' house.

The momentary confusion of sleep-to-wakefulness was replaced by three consecutive thoughts that made her smile to herself: one, that she was lying naked on her right side, covered with a tangle of sheets and a light flannel blanket; two, that the warmth she felt curled around her back was Bobby; and three, that they'd discovered just how squeaky the double-bed's wooden frame was and had moved to the floor in the midst of their love-making. The last thought made her giggle softly.

Behind her, Bobby stirred at the sound and began placing warm kisses on her left shoulder blade and along the back of her neck. "Mickey, dahlin'," he drawled quietly. "You sleep alright?"

"Definitely," she replied, and then she gasped as his fingers reached to stroke her warm softness. "Bobby?" Her body was starting to respond to his light, seductive touches, and Mickey couldn't help opening herself to him, pressing backwards against his growing erection as it twitched alongside her buttocks.

"Shh," Bobby whispered after a few moments, kissing and nipping at her shoulder as he encouraged her to bend her top leg, easing his access as he lay behind her. "I need to take care of something first…"

"Oh," said Mickey, and then her words were lost, muffled as she moaned into the pillow. He slipped into her easily, filling her and stroking ever so slowly as he caressed her hip and her stomach, and licked one shoulder blade.

"So warm, darlin'," he told her, his breath a soft tickle in her ear. "And so nice to wake up to." Bobby moved almost languidly, as if dancing to a slow, sensuous tune in his head. When he reached around with one hand to stroke her crux in time to his penetrations, he felt Mickey grasp the pillow even tighter as she moaned and her orgasm raced through her. He held himself still as she came, with not some little effort, as her muscles pulsed in waves around him and her legs trembled; it was a warm and addictive sensation.

It took a bit of quiet shifting around; neither of them wanting to be too loud and free, but Mickey maneuvered herself to the bottom position, and wrapped her legs tightly around her lover's hips. He remained large and firm inside of her.

"That was wonderful," she said, tears coming to her eyes.

Dawson smiled as he kissed both eyelids. "You okay?" He propped himself on one elbow and looked down at her, concerned.

Mickey reached up to caress his face. "I feel alive; thank you." She flashed a wicked grin as she rotated her hips a little, clenching around his erection, pulling his head down so that she could whisper in his ear. "Take me _hard_ this time, Bobby, please. I'll try to be quiet… "

He growled softly as he began to thrust, leaning down to kiss her. "M-hmm," he agreed. "I can do that."

They must have dozed for a short while afterwards, sated and warm in each other's arms. Reaching up gently when she opened her eyes again, Mickey tried in vain to smooth his curls from the "bed-head" look he always got.

"Are you there, Mr. Sleepy?" she teased, kissing his forehead.

"Sure am," came his muffled reply. He slid down a bit to kiss her chest, tasting first one rosy nipple, then the other, and finally tried to roll onto his back for a stretch. It was impossible since they'd wedged themselves between the bed and the wall. "Oh, yeah…" he said and a loud bark of a laugh escaped his lips.

She flinched and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Shhh! I don't want Uncle Jim thinking we're sex maniacs." Even as she said it, Mickey couldn't help smiling.

Bobby quieted and gave her a wide-eyed, innocent look until she removed her hand. "You say that like it's a bad thing, _cher_," he whispered, grinning suggestively and pressing his pelvis against hers. Now she couldn't help giggling into the pillow.

They helped each other to stand, tossing pillows and blankets up onto the bed. Mickey pinched him gently on the bottom as she buried herself among the pillows, stretching luxuriously. "You can have the shower first, Bobby. Since it takes you about forever to get ready for work…"

He pulled on his boxers and leaned over to kiss her, chuckling softly at their inside joke. "Okay, pretty face, and no sneakin' in on me, hear? No telling what your uncle would think of that." Bobby reached for his shaving kit before he went across the hallway, leaving her to doze a few minutes more.

Not long after, Mickey almost bumped into Catherine in the hallway as she left her room to head downstairs to the kitchen. "Oh, excuse me," she said as they startled each other. "Hi Catherine."

"Hey there, Mickey. How are you doing?" Catherine shifted her bag to one shoulder and threaded her arm through the younger woman's as they came down the stairs.

"I'm good, thanks."

Catherine turned to look at her closely when they got to the living room. "Should I be worried that you took a second leave day? You weren't too happy with the first one."

Mickey smiled. "I know. I'm sorry stomped around in front of you… it was probably pretty ridiculous, wasn't it? I got my attitude straightened out and made good use of my time." They walked into the kitchen where Bobby was setting the table for four and Jim was busily working over the stove and countertops.

Willows raised her eyebrows in a question. "I needed to go to the mall," was the answer.

Catherine laughed. "And…" She handed over a small glass of orange juice.

Mickey grinned, reddening a little. "And go to the university library."

"Ah hah! Thought so," said Willows, gently clinking glasses with Mickey.

Bobby came over and put an arm around each woman. "_Madam et mademoiselle_, table for four? The chef has prepared for you an exquisite _petite dejeuner_ today." He was grinning mischievously as he helped them both to sit at the kitchen table.

Catherine giggled, delighted. "Bobby Dawson, I had no idea you spoke French. I thought you were from Texas, you poser." She looked over at Mickey, who shrugged and smiled. Mickey already knew the story behind it.

"Yes ma'am, I am," he told her. "But my Mama is from the bayou of Port Charles so most of my relatives coulda played right along with Dennis Quaid in 'The Big Easy'." His accent changed subtly to the one Catherine was more accustomed to. "Back home, it's not exactly what you'd call continental French, _cher_. I did take a few semesters when I was at UT-Austin. Didn't you take a language when you were doing your courses at the university?"

Catherine shrugged as she began doctoring up a cup of coffee. "I wish. Not a whole lot of time between classes, work and taking care of Lindsey. Hey Jim, what language did you take back in your days at Seton?"

Jim came over to the table carrying a platter of scrambled eggs and bacon. A second plate of toast and cantaloupe wedges was already there. He sat and they began serving their plates and passing items around. "Uh, Latin. Everybody had to since it is a Catholic school. Which reminds me, Mickey, you see the department chaplain yet?"

His niece nodded. "I have an appointment first thing tonight with Father Mike."

"Good. What was over at the library?"

"I wanted to look up some older research articles on _Serratia marcescens_, our red bug. It's…"

"Guys, please," Catherine interrupted them. "No shoptalk at the table." She tried to sound stern but couldn't help smiling fondly at the younger woman and her uncle the cop. Bobby chuckled softly and paid closer attention to his coffee.

Brass looked sheepishly at Mickey. "Sorry kid. Better listen to your boss," he told her with a wink. There would be time enough for shoptalk at the labs when they all went in for the night's shift.

-/-/-/-/-/-

As promised, Mickey got to her appointment with the LVMPD chaplain first thing, and then headed directly to the "bug lab" to prepare for a meeting with Grissom. She passed by the break room windows and waved to Nick, Warrick and Sara who were already there awaiting assignments, but did not stop.

An hour or so later, she met up with Grissom in the main evidence layout room, that particular space chosen instead of his office so that they could use a map of the Las Vegas area to plot their findings. Gil was placing scene photos on the map, indicating both the Pathways development and the more recent, Painted Desert when she knocked quietly on the door.

"Hi, Mickey. Come on in," he said noticing right away the several folders she carried, and knowing full well that was how he looked much of the time. "How are you?"

Smiling a little ruefully, she shrugged and indicated the bandage that covered stitches over his left eye. "I was just going to ask you the same question. Fine, thanks, and sure as hell ready to catch the bozo that's doing this… _experiment_ around town."

Gil nodded and raised his good eyebrow. He pulled over a second lab stool for her and they sat between the lighted lay-out table and the large white marker board. "Same here. What have you got so far?"

Taking a deep breath, Mickey began: "Operation Sea Spray, believe it or not. In the early 50s, the U.S. Army tested their presumed safe biological weapons over San Francisco using balloons filled with _Serratia marcescens_."

"Balloons," repeated Grissom. "Wind currents maybe?"

"Exactly. They must have been tracking dispersal and the 'City by the Bay' is very windy.

"It is. You said 'presumed safe'," he continued. "How does this bacterium normally behave?"

In spite of the serious discussion that they were having, Mickey had to grin. "You don't like to say bugs, do you?"

Grissom chuckled, understanding immediately what she meant. "It's imprecise. Insects are insects and bacteria are bacteria. 'Bugs' doesn't do them justice; just between us of course." He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, looking at her over the rims of his reading glasses.

"True. Anyway, _Serratia_ was considered a totally safe, non-pathogenic culture at the time. I use it myself in teaching labs."

"But it's not a non-pathogen?"

She shook her head emphatically. "No, I mean it's not the plague or anything like that but you still have to be careful with it. It's an opportunist and a potentially serious one. It does occur naturally in soil, water and human intestines, but, in the wrong place at the wrong time… it could be fatal." Mickey pulled a photocopied sheet from one of her folders and showed it to him. "Nosocomial infections mainly, like respiratory tract and U.T.I., but also endocarditis, eye infections, meningitis, you name it."

"Is that what happened in the 50s?"

"I think there was an odd increase in U.T.I. and respiratory problems," she replied. "And one fatality. Bad news if someone is immune-compromised."

Gil made a sound of interest as he was writing some notes. He then picked up a marker and indicated points on the map. "Here's what we know: Pathways development, here, and Painted Desert here. Both locations had significant bacterial growth."

"Why weren't more houses involved?"

"We need to find that out," Grissom said as he moved to the white board, marking "S. marcescens" in the center and putting a box around it. He drew several arrows toward the box, adding the names of the locations they'd just discussed. It wasn't often, but he occasionally used concept maps (c-maps) to illustrate cases. Gil would never admit it to Greg Sanders, who swore by them.

Mickey had been sitting at the table, staring at the map. "What's the military presence out here? I'm not familiar with the area."

Grissom nodded approval and added a second box, this one in the upper left corner of the board. "Air Force: Nellis is here; Nevada Test Site and Indian Springs are not far." He wrote "USAF" in the second box and added the name "Francis Anthony Scalisi" underneath it.

There was a quiet knock on the open door, and they both looked up to see Dr. Robbins gazing longingly at the lighted table. "I really, really love that table. I've got to figure out how to get one for my lab, Gil."

"Tell me something I don't know, Doc," said Gil.

Robbins sat at the lab stool Grissom had vacated. "Hi, Mickey. OK, in sixth grade I was voted by the girls in the class as the fastest runner and best kisser in 'Kiss-chase' on the school playground." He surreptitiously checked Gil's bandage and bruising, the concerned-friend-and-physician persona peeking out a bit, comparing it to the healing wound on Mickey's forehead. He gave a tiny shake of his head, worrying a bit about the two of them and their fieldwork, but he made no comment aloud.

They laughed, Gil clearing his throat by way of friendly admonishment and Mickey looked over at him, eyebrows raised in a silent question. "Old joke. Actually, Al, we were going to call you for some advice."

The graveyard shift chief coroner checked his watch. "Fire away then. I came over on another matter, but David can page me if anything comes up."

Grissom went on to explain what he and Mickey had begun working on. Robbins looked at the map and the white board while they spoke, listening attentively.

"Well, I don't know how relevant this would be, but we finally identified your jumper, Mickey," he said.

"_My_ jumper?" She looked puzzled until he continued:

"Yes, back a few weeks ago when you went out with David on a pickup. Jacqui had to tweak the databases a bit, but it came back a Vincent Welker." He paused and pointed to the board. "U.S. Air Force."

TBC


End file.
